


A Summer's Tale

by ghermez



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Background Character Death, Dead!Akiteru, Getting Together, Given AU, Happy Ending, I APOLOGIZE, M/M, Musicians, Slow Burn, Working Through Grief, and Kuroo gives him one (hundred), tsukki needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24612685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghermez/pseuds/ghermez
Summary: During the summer between youth and adulthood, Tsukishima Kei learns how to play the guitar, let go of his late brother, and fall in love. Kuroo Tetsuro is a guitar playing menace who fixes Tsukishima's broken guitar string and manages to convince Tsukishima to embrace joy again.Given AU where Akiteru has died in an accident during a concert, Tsukishima picks up his guitar, and Kuroo is the helpful man who won't stop giving Tsukishima ideas of a happy ending.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 45
Kudos: 117





	1. Dazzling Brilliance

**Author's Note:**

> Heeeeey if you're thinking of reading Given (manga) or watching the anime, please know that the manga deals with suicide and with sexual assault between two major characters. Be cautious. This fic is _loosely_ based on it in the manner that is MC faces grief, MC heals with music and friendship and love. :-)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tsukishima meets an eccentric guy on the beach.

Tsukishima Kei didn't understand why his brother loved music so much. The question was the only thing on his mind in the summer after his last year in high school.

For the past semester, he’d put on his uniform and felt a pang of pain at realizing that Akiteru would never again see him in it. He would never straighten up Tsukishima’s collar or ruffle his hair ever again.

The guitar case was laid by his bed and he picked it up. He’d found it in the storage three years ago, but hadn’t began carrying it around until recently, when his mother threatened to throw it away. Tsukishima knew she was simply heartbroken and the instrument put her heart through the ordeal all over again. Concert gone wrong, the news had said, but Tsukishima couldn't process the words. How did his older brother, his whole world, disappear from their lives whilst doing the one thing he loved? The details of the incident were everywhere online, and yet, Tsukishima couldn’t convince himself that his brother wasn’t a victim to a love too powerful to control. Music was Akiteru’s life and yet it was the reason Tsukishima didn’t have a brother anymore.

The last semester of high school had gone by quietly. He spent most of his lunch breaks hugging the guitar case and wondering if that alone could help fill the gap in his chest.

"Take me with you," he would whisper, his tears hot in his eyes but refusing to fall. He never cried. Not then and not now.

Once spring came along, Yamaguchi, childhood best friend and volleyball enthusiast, dragged him to the beach almost every day after school. Tsukishima didn’t understand why Yamaguchi even wanted him there; he was a quiet spectator most of the time. It was during one of those games, when his eyes were drawn to the shape of a person jumping through the air, limbs free and soaring, that he met one of the two people who’d later on change his life.

At first, Tsukishima hadn’t cared for the sharp-chinned, grinning captain, who asked the ever-present question of, "Wanna play?"

He refused that time and his answer didn't change over the span of the following weeks. Yamaguchi played some games, but lost a majority of them because no one could beat the annoying duo third years of orange haired shrimp and the scowling genius who dominated the high school players.

After every game, “Let's go, I'm beat,” Yamaguchi would say, face scrunched into a frown.

“Why do you bother?” Tsukishima wanted to ask, but there wasn't a point to it. Yamaguchi simply felt emotions Tsukishima didn't understand. Yamaguchi had volleyball and his weekend live concerts.

Tsukishima never accepted those invitations and Yamaguchi never asked twice.

It was now only the beginning of summer, finals were in two weeks' time, and Tsukishima was all studied-out. His mind was full of theories and rules, rules, rules. He’d only wanted to take a nap, lay his head on the warm sand, and fall asleep with the sun turning his skin pink. He didn't account for the loud cheer of that same sharp-chinned bedhead.

"You're that tall guy! Wanna play?"

Always that damned question. Tsukishima considered ignoring him, but lifting a hand and waving him off didn't hurt either.

What he hadn't accounted for was for Bedhead to sit down a couple of inches away.

"You're usually carrying that guitar case around. You're not playing today?"

Tsukishima peeled one eye open and was astounded to see the guy's profile closer than it needed to be. He jerked away, but didn't answer. The guitar wasn't his to play, per se—he didn't even the smallest of the instruments’ sounds besides what he’d heard Akiteru play the handful of times he had sat, in their living room, bewildered and impressed with his older brother’s talent. Tsukishima had never attempted to play it, especially since the string was snapped when he'd found it.

"I play the guitar myself, if I may brag a little. Not bad at all. Are you a guitarist? Or a bassist? I think you'd be a great bassist. You look like one, you know."

"I thought you said you'd brag a _little_." The cattiness of his response was so unlike him—the him from now, that was. Tsukishima had been known for his acerbic tongue and killer glares. Now, he could barely get some rest from this stranger.

The stranger who cackled so loudly that Tsukishima abandoned all attempts at napping. He straightened up, brushing the sand from his jacket.

“I’m Kuroo Tetsuro, what’s your name?”

He mumbled it back, not sure he even wanted this _Kuroo_ guy to know his name, but too polite to sit quietly and not answer. His phone alarm went off, reminding him that he wasn’t supposed to be there for too long.

He got up, towering over Kuroo, but said nothing in a way of explanation. Simply said goodbye, to which Kuroo raised a hand and waved. “See you tomorrow, Tsukishima.”

Tsukishima stayed away from the beach the entire duration of finals. He would look out from his seat, at the sprawl of scenery, and how beyond busy streets and crowded sidewalks, he could probably see the beach, quiet at that time of the day, the sand undisturbed, the waves lulled and quiet.

When they were finally freed, graduation in the palm of their hands, university acceptance letter already received and finalized, it came to no one’s surprise that his grades were as impeccable as always. Yamaguchi skated by well enough, sighing over how close he’d been to spending his summer in supplementary lessons. Tsukishima wasn’t worried to begin with because despite how he looked, Yamaguchi was smart and prioritized his future.

“Hey, Tsukki,” he said, calling Tsukishima by the very same nickname Tsukishima tolerated, eyes sparkling with hope, “Wanna play volleyball with me?”

“No, Yamaguchi,” he replied as usual, adding a quick, “I’ll watch,” before Yamaguchi could transform into a broken-hearted puppy. Yamaguchi’s entire body buzzed in excitement in response.

“Great because there’s these two volleyball weirdos I want to beat today. Tanaka-san said he will—” and so on went Yamaguchi, talking about the players he encountered during his games, while Tsukishima listened, walking together to the bus station.

The beach was fuller than ever, many students shucking off their uniform shirts, walking around in tank-tops and enjoying ice-cream. Tsukishima declined the offer, taking long drinks from his water bottle instead, and watched as Yamaguchi, who had changed into a pair of sunshine yellow shorts and a bright blue tank top, approached his partner, readying themselves for a match.

Tsukishima didn’t plan to watch the other teams as well, but they were so noisy it was impossible to ignore them.

And there _he_ was.

Shirtless and wearing black shorts, running all over the place, sand flying in his wake as he blocked the opposing team’s strike. The grin on Kuroo’s face was at its sharpest. Tsukishima knew this because he’d accidentally taken note of the grin’s variations. There was that relaxed, post-game one, where he was spent and yet rearing to go another set. The grin he preserved for the spiky-haired loud guy, who was broad shouldered and walked around with a quiet, serious boy. They didn’t look much older to Tsukishima, and their height didn’t intimidate him. But it was the way they moved. Kuroo with his pudding-head of a partner were a force to be reckoned with. Pudding-head often took breaks between games, sitting down under a wide umbrella atop a red and white beach towel, complaining quietly of the heat, while Kuroo laughed and argued that it was good to be in the sun.

“Tsukishima!” Kuroo now called, forcing Tsukishima out of a spectacularly embarrassing trance. Was he really thinking of Kuroo’s many faceted grins? Pathetic.

He gave a tiny nod, and Pudding-head mimicked. He was relieved that the boy wasn’t the boisterous kind like Kuroo, whose legs were eating up the space of sand between them.

“I forgot you had exams,” he said, lean body curved over Tsukishima, as if he were either about to pounce or trying to protect Tsukishima from the sun. The idea of the first left tiny prickles down Tsukishima’s arms. He clamped a hand over the back of his neck, missing the weight of the guitar case. It tethered him to the here and now, and being looked at by Kuroo—in his intent, all-seeing way—made Tsukishima want to make a hole for himself right there on the beach.

He didn’t even have to reply. Kuroo plopped himself on the sand near him, body turned towards Tsukishima casually. Kuroo had little specs of sand all over him, his tanned legs especially were coated with a thin layer. Tsukishima wondered if grazing Kuroo’s leg would leave his hand with a dusting of sand or with Kuroo’s sunshine.

“You should play with us one day. You’re tall, you’d make a good player,” he said, as if it made sense, but his nearness alone made Tsukishima’s heart tremble.

“I don’t like sweating.”

Kuroo cackled, loud and a bit embarrassing, but something, nestled deep behind Tsukishima’s disinterest in everything, was tickled by the sound. He wondered if it’d been his spirit, rising to meet Kuroo’s own vivid presence.

“Funny you’d say that since you’re always here on the beach. Serious. Beach volleyball is fun. I used to play in high school before this knee began giving me issue. Bokuto there, that loudmouth, mainly plays indoors. He plays beach for fun. The bum.” Somehow, this all came out easily, as if Kuroo thought telling Tsukishima, who was a near stranger, about his life was natural.

Tsukishima said nothing, listening instead. Kuroo was a middle-blocker, he learned that the position was for great, cunning guys…Kuroo’s words, not his. “Guys like me, we make it super hard for loudmouths like Bokuto to score. I loved my position. I was good too. Ask Kenma.” Kenma was Pudding-head, a first year in college.

Tsukishima had never lost himself talking about something the way Kuroo talked about volleyball.

“But that’s not really my passion. Music is. I want to debut with my band, you see, except that douchebag is focusing on volleyball,” Kuroo mumbled, leaning back on his arms, watching Bokuto rib into the quiet guy.

“That’s Akaashi. He’s in college but he’s in the band too. Plays the drums and sings. Amazing voice, really, and writes most of our songs.”

Tsukishima cut his eyes to the quiet, dark-haired boy, Akaashi, Kuroo had called him, seemed content to listen to Bokuto. When Akaashi noticed the pair of them—Tsukishima startled at being part of a pair that wasn’t him and Yamaguchi—he nodded and raised a hand as greeting.

That prompted Bokuto to turn to them.

“Are you playing, Kuroo?!” This came out as a loud screech across the beach. Kuroo’s grin was back on, ferocious and sharp, and he got up, dusting himself off.

Tsukishima watched him, duly noting how the dark fabric of his shorts melded against his butt. He looked away fast, before anyone could notice him, but the heat rising in him wasn’t mainly due to sitting in the sun. Besides, he spent the better half of the next hour watching Kuroo banter across the net from Bokuto, his laughter joyous. His words stayed with Tsukishima for a long time after Yamaguchi finally won a set and they trudged away to the bus station.

“I noticed you talking to Kuroo. He goes to Tokyo university, like you’re planning to, Tsukki.” The information shouldn’t spark anything in him, and he didn’t want to feel the fluttering in his ribcage, or know that there was a question he wanted to ask Kuroo. Something about the heavy weight Tsukishima carried on his shoulders, and whether Kuroo could…fix it.

He came back around sunset, and hoped the beach was emptying of those volleyball players. He wished that. But there Kuroo was, rolling up a towel and grinning at a grumbling Kenma. Tsukishima wondered at the capacity Kuroo possessed to always be so obviously joyful. Like nothing made him happier than to drag an exhausted Kenma from where he was lying on the sand.

“Tsukki!” Kuroo called him now and the nickname, coming out of _Kuroo_ ’s mouth startled everything in him.

He stood, awaiting further instruction from the cosmos because apparently today wasn’t going like it was supposed to be. It was the first day of summer vacation. Possibilities sparkled in the air. How did Tsukishima want to spend the very last summer of his youth?

Kuroo looked far too happy to see him, bounding over, the rolled-up beach towel in the crook of one arm, his free hand resting on his hip. He was wearing a tank-top, bright red, his hair tousled as ever, the setting sun lighting it on fire. Tsukishima wanted to turn away and ignore the pang in his chest.

There was that question on the tip of his tongue.

Tsukishima wasn’t alone this time. The weight of Akiteru’s guitar was back where it belonged. On his shoulders for him to bear.

“You’ve got your guitar!”

“Kuroo-san, can you fix it?” He wanted to sound sure, like this wasn’t a favor coming from a stranger, like Kuroo had a motive to say yes. He moved to open the case, display the broken string of the gleaming black Gibson. It was Akiteru’s prized possession. How he’d forgotten it that day, Tsukishima didn’t know. But he knew how much his brother loved it. Worked day and night to save money for it. Changed it string, tuned it, lovingly, like a parent might stroke a babe.

Kuroo’s eyes widened and he inspected the guitar in Tsukishima’s hands. He placed his free hand under chin. “It’s fixable, for sure, but Tsukki, you don’t know how?”

“It…” he hesitated before speaking. Did Kuroo need to know? Then again, telling the truth cost him nothing—only the sharp ache in his chest growing more painful by every word, but Tsukishima had gotten used to it. “It was my brother’s. I never played it. Kuroo-san, will you fix the string for me?”

He didn’t know what image he presented to Kuroo, standing there with a guitar he didn’t even know how to strum a simple tune on. The way Kuroo stared at him, eyes wide and mouth parted, unnerved him and for a second, he considered tucking it back in its case and walking away. He didn’t need pity. Not from Kuroo.

“You don’t have to,” he spat then, the embarrassment of being indebted to a guy he barely knew stinging his cheeks. He wished he didn’t, but he knew he was growing redder by the second.

“It’s okay! I can do it! I mean—I just—I—stay here!” he said the last with a finger up, running back to Kenma to dump the towel in his hands and then Tsukishima lost him as he took one turn after the other towards the block of stores.

“Where is he going?” he whispered, hands fisted around the neck of the guitar and regret choking him.

When Kuroo came back, he was sweaty and breathless, but he nodded at Tsukishima as if telling him that yes, the mission was successful. He bit his lip and allowed Kuroo to take the guitar off his hands. The loss of it rankled but he waited and watched Kuroo carefully yet assuredly snipped the broken string, unwound it, then began replacing it. Once he tuned the guitar, Tsukishima found that he could breathe a little more easily. Like Kuroo had taken one piece of the jumbled one-million-pieces puzzle in his head and placed it in its rightful spot.

“There we go. You should be done.” Kuroo offered it back, and awed, Tsukishima wanted nothing more than to reach out and take it. The guitar fit perfectly in his arms and for an inane moment, he imagined himself as Akiteru, able to dazzle a crowd though he’d never seen his brother perform. He tried to say thank you, but found his throat was thick when he opened his mouth.

“Say, Tsukki, do you want to watch my band play one day?” Kuroo asked, and Tsukishima raised his eyes from the instrument in his hands to see that this stranger, who offered Tsukishima more kindness than with which he knew what to do, had turned slightly pink, hand thrust into his stranger hair, eyes evading his.

And there, Tsukishima said a quick “Yes” for fear that his courage could be sapped away. Except, standing there in Kuroo Tetsuro’s brilliance, Tsukishima felt light…as if he could fly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. I'm heartless for killing Akiteru but listen, it's for the greater good. Angst. Yes. Anyway, enjoy this painful morsel of love I have for Tsukishima Kei. (I will hurt you more!) 
> 
> Note: Tsukki is 17 at the beginning of this but don't worry, nothing happens until he's of age.


	2. The Awakening of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Gym 3. They're kind of quirky and kind of the best.

They called themselves Gymnasium 3, which made absolutely no sense before and even after Bokuto explained it.

“We were in training camp. Kuroo was on whipping-Lev’s-ass-into-shape duty and I was trying to find worthy opponents and we sort of formed a band.”

Kuroo leaned back in his seat, a tiny smile on his face.

The studio where Gym 3—“Shorter stuff works best, right?” Kuroo said—practiced was small with light brown soundproof panels on the wall and a slightly darker wooden floor. There were no windows, which Tsukishima guessed would defy the purpose of a soundproof studio. Bokuto was a bassist, which _also didn’t_ make sense. The guy had more energy than an entire pack of wild crows and Tsukishima had assumed he’d also be some sort of drumming genius. But no, he held the bass as if it were an extension of his body. As Kuroo had informed him, he himself looked quite at ease holding a deep red guitar in his hand. Tsukishima didn’t know the model, not that it’d make a difference to him, and knew Kuroo would tell him soon enough.

“Don’t mind them, they know the name is ridiculous. Is there anything particular you want us to play?” That was Akaashi, who proved to be the voice of reason. Kenma was there too, but in the corner, head bowed over a handheld gaming console, the faint sounds of video game music playing from his headphones. Tsukishima didn’t dare disturb him.

He thought about Akaashi’s question. He enjoyed music a lot, mostly UK bands with distinguished voices. He shrugged now, not wanting his opinion to alter the band’s routine.

But the trio met one another’s eye and as if moving in one, beginning with the three, two, one of Akaashi hitting his drumsticks together, they began playing a song, raucous and as fascinatingly harmonious as they’d bragged they were—well, Kuroo and Bokuto had bragged, Akaashi sat in his seat and looked faintly tired of the two’s antics.

Tsukishima watched as Akaashi now moved his seemingly average body as if it were a well-oiled machine, his hands moving so quickly Tsukishima could only see hints of how complicated the drumming was. Bokuto looked utterly at ease, body moving as if he were riding an invisible wave, the twang of the bass deep and making Tsukishima’s blood pulse quicker in his veins. Then there was Kuroo, with his electric guitar plugged into one of those large speakers Tsukishima knew were amps. He couldn’t stop staring, however, at Kuroo, with his eyes closed, hand strumming wild, mouth open in a smile Tsukishima hadn’t seen before. It was the look of a person on the doors of paradise, being offered everything he’d ever wanted.

Tsukishima’s chest tightened and again, he thought of how this was what Akiteru looked like when he played. This was the music Akiteru will never hear or play again. Tsukishima looked down at the guitar in his hands. He’d taken it out of the case and listened to Kuroo as he instructed him on how to tune it, though most of what Kuroo had said escaped his notice—he was too close and Tsukishima had raptly watched Kuroo’s thin lips move and his surprisingly dark lashes flutter. Now, he felt not only as a joke but an imposter too. What was he doing here? Crashing on a band’s practice session and holding his brother’s precious guitar as if he knew even the smallest about making music.

Tsukishima couldn’t stand there any longer, so he put down the guitar back in its case and ran out, ignoring the shout of “Tsukki!” from Kuroo. He was outside the studio, taking deep gulps of air as if it might run out, when a strong hand grasped his forearm. He turned, heart wild in his chest, to face Kuroo. Slightly sweaty, Kuroo’s face was twisted into an expression Tsukishima didn’t want to know.

“What happened?” Kuroo asked, hushed and unlike himself. Or the Kuroo self Tsukishima had gotten to know from a couple of beach volleyball games. What did he really know of this person?

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled, shrugging off Kuroo’s hold on him. That was a touch he wouldn’t forget soon. It felt like lava had been smeared all over those five centimeters of skin.

But Kuroo didn’t take his non-answer as a response and stood there, the streetlight behind him shining bright on them, and when Tsukishima had to look up at Kuroo, he was astonished by the sincerity in his eyes.

“Tsukki, you can tell me.”

“Why do you call me that anyway?” he spat out, unable to linger on the real cause of his turmoil. He can’t expect Kuroo to listen to his story of woe; how he managed to lose the one person he loved and who’d understood him completely.

Kuroo put a hand to his face, as if he were sheepish, but Tsukishima saw the glint in those dark eyes. He wasn’t. “Isn’t that what the freckled one calls you? I thought it was cute. Like you.”

The compliment shocked him so much that Tsukishima couldn’t say anything in return. His face was warming up so he clicked his tongue and looked away, more comfortable with being pissed off than suddenly shy because he was called _cute_.

“How about we stop the practice short and go for ice-cream?” Kuroo said, and while Tsukishima didn’t practically want to get any ice-cream now, Kuroo’s voice had a weird quality to it, like this was all he wanted to do. So, he shrugged and mumbled a quick, “Okay.”

Bokuto and Akaashi joined them, while Kenma quietly excused himself, saying something about how he was meeting up with someone called Shouyo. Tsukishima’s quick exit, blissfully, was never discussed again. He ended up walking side by side next to Akaashi as Kuroo led the way, instrument case hung over his broad shoulders.

Akaashi’s quietness unnerved Tsukishima. It seemed to see something in him Tsukishima didn’t want revealed. His heart refused to settle and he had the strongest urge to stare at the back of Kuroo’s head, wondering what went in there besides music and volleyball. He and Bokuto talked of nothing else, even going as far as kicking one another when their argument about whether some idol singer was cuter than her teammate reached a point of no return.

“You’re just biased because Mika-chan has long hair,” Bokuto complained loudly, and Kuroo seemed more enthused to kick Bokuto’s ass again.

“Stop that or he’ll be pouting through the next week and forget how to play anything on the bass.” This was Akaashi, who always had a good retort to the two’s arguments. It seemed to Tsukishima that the three of them worked so well with Kuroo the instigator, Bokuto the whiner, and Akaashi the calmest of all three.

“Tsukki, what kind of girls do you like? Long hair or short?” Bokuto asked, his pouting over Kuroo’s harshness forgotten.

Tsukishima didn’t think much of girls, but he answered anyway, “Short.”

“Ooooohhhh,” this was Kuroo, leaning back, dangerously close to Tsukishima’s face, and grinning. “Let me guess, you like sassy, sporty girls, right?”

That was far from the truth yet Tsukishima couldn’t open his mouth and reveal that, no, actually, he liked tall, short-haired _boys_ who had a killer block and could brighten a room with a wicked grin. Instead, he shrugged and let Bokuto distract Kuroo by complaining of how, lately, whenever he tried to pick up girls at university, they think he was some weirdo.

“It’s the hair. No one takes spiky hair seriously anymore,” Kuroo laughed.

Akaashi was quick to respond that _Kuroo_ himself had spiky hair. But that didn’t seem to bother Kuroo much.

“This is bedhead. You think I walk around like this on purpose?” Kuroo asked.

“Honestly, Kuroo-san, your hair is the least of your problems. That smirk alone makes you look like you’re up to no good,” Tsukishima said, offhandedly, yet it conjured in the group several reactions. Kuroo cackled, Bokuto whooped in pride that _Tsukki shut him up_ and Akaashi looked at Tsukishima with strange pride in his eyes.

Once at their destination, as the two eldest, Kuroo and Bokuto played rock, paper, scissors to decide who’ll pay for ice-cream. Bokuto’s eyes glinted when he won 2 out of 3, and he dragged Kuroo to the convenience store.

“Tsukki, do you have anything specific you like?” Kuroo asked.

“Strawberry,” he replied without thinking. It was only when Kuroo’s smile turned small, right before he turned to go inside, that Tsukishima recalled that he hadn’t had anything strawberry-flavored for a while. He waited outside, leaning against a pole, Akaashi on his left, fiddling with his phone.

Akaashi nudged him, pointing his phone towards Tsukishima. He understood the gesture and took his own out, exchanging information. The little act seemed to cement Tsukishima’s presence in Gym 3 and as he ate his ice-cream (it was delicious,) he wondered if he’ll get invited again.

Bokuto and Akaashi took a different route so they split, Kuroo walking Tsukishima to the train station.

“You don’t have to come along all this way,” he said now, as they waited on the platform.

Kuroo fidgeted, his smile a different shade, almost like he was shy. “It’s okay. I wanted to see you off. Tsukki… I’m glad you came today.”

Tsukishima lifted his head from where he’d been watching his feet, and as he clutched both straps of his guitar case, he stared at Kuroo’s profile. The guy didn’t face him, and it gave Tsukishima the time to gather the words, as if he were catching fireflies in a jar, lighting up his mind.

“I liked it a lot today. Your music… it’s fun. I want to listen to it again,” he finally said, his voice calmer than the building storm inside him.

Kuroo was apparently encouraged by this and turned to face Tsukishima, that perpetual grin back on his face, “That’s great! I mean, I know our band can be a bit messy and mismatched—Bokuto is obsessed with covering J-pop music and I want to be the next One Ok Rock but—yeah, we have fun.”

The train had approached just then, and Kuroo put a hand behind his head. Tsukishima’s heart hadn’t stopped thundering in his chest, and he worried now if Kuroo might be able to hear it even over the sound of the overhead warning for all commuters to stand clear.

“Can I come again? Can I watch you play?” he asked, hurry turning his cheeks hot with embarrassment. Why was he so desperate for Kuroo to say yes?

“Of course! You should come!” Except the train was opening its doors just then and Tsukishima moved automatically closer to the doors once the departing passengers emptied out. Kuroo looked smaller from where Tsukishima watched him inside the car.

He lifted a hand to wave goodbye but then Kuroo’s mouth opened. “Tomorrow! Same time! Meet me at the beach, Tsukki!” The doors closed just as he’d said Tsukishima’s name, his voice lighting up a bright fire in Tsukishima. He nodded, hoping Kuroo saw it in him, the awakening of hope.

Due to the hour, he could find himself a seat, and he placed his trusted Sony headphones on, drowning out the noise of the world. He hadn’t remembered to record the band’s song, but he didn’t need to. When Tsukishima laid himself in bed that night, Gym 3’s song was already imprinted in his mind, the rhythm and harmony as clear to him as his own mind’s voice.


	3. A Challenge Is Issued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tsukishima is issued a challenge he wants to win.

Tsukishima made his way to the beach the next day sweaty from running errands with his mother, then rushing home to change. That in of itself was an ordeal since he had no idea what to wear for whatever Kuroo had in wait for him.

His spirits soared when he spotted Kuroo, in his perpetual state of vicious sportsmanship, unflinching when a player half his size jumped high and fast, as if he was attempting to split the sky clear in the middle with his momentum. Tsukishima found a square of sand unoccupied by families and volleyball spectators and admired the way Kuroo shook his head at his opponent’s never-ending energy. Kenma was nowhere and instead a vulpine guy much taller than Kuroo accompanied him, his eyes sharp and his arm moving like a whip to strike Kuroo’s set.

Tsukishima had listened to Yamaguchi enough times, accompanied him to many games, and had easily picked up the lingo. Yet he’d never been tempted to play the game; it looked exhausting, and he hated to show his low stamina.

After a tiring rally, Kuroo’s duo won the set, much to the chagrin of their opponents—who Tsukishima recognized as the freak duo who made Yamaguchi break into heated monologues of how one day, he would beat them. Kuroo high-fived his partner, his grin ever-present, then spotted Tsukishima over the blonde’s shoulder.

There should be a new word invented simply for the way Kuroo looked at him, the sun bright behind him, hot and blistering, yet it left Tsukishima feeling as if he were sitting in a spot designated just for him. His fingers fidgeted unconsciously and he wanted to look anywhere but at the confident way Kuroo walked to him. The way he looked at Tsukishima didn’t help the riot of summer storm inside his chest.

Kuroo’s words from last night, soft and quiet, just for him to hear, rang in his memory. After watching Gym 3 (still a shitty band name) play, Tsukishima couldn’t get their impression out of his mind. They each had shined so brightly, like tiny supernovas in their own galaxy. He wanted that for himself, too. He wanted to honor the guitar he carried on his shoulders.

“Tsukki, you’re here,” Kuroo said, as if Tsukishima wouldn’t have showed up no matter what it cost him to be here.

“Kenma-san will be hurt to see you’ve replaced him with a taller player,” he said, blurting whatever that’d make Kuroo stop staring. He felt Kuroo’s eyes on his legs. Why did he wear shorts?

“Kenma doesn’t mind when I amuse Lev. Matter of fact, he ignored my call this morning—which is night to him.”

“Kuroo-san! Who is this?!” the guy talked in exclamations, and Tsukishima felt on guard so he tilted his face higher, knowing the image he made with the sun glinting off his glasses. But it didn’t deter him.

“This is my disciple Tsukki. I’m teaching him all about music and the finer things in life. This is Lev, who’s still nowhere near as good as Shrimpy.”

“Eeeeeh, Kuroo-san’s music is barely decent though,” Lev said, utterly casual and sure of himself, ignoring Kuroo’s comment comparing him with “Shrimpy”, which elicited a glare and a strong thump on the back from Kuroo. Tsukishima covered his chuckle behind a hand yet Kuroo spotted it anyway, giving Tsukishima look that promised he’ll get him back. It both terrified and thrilled Tsukishima.

“Call my band unrefined and I’ll bury you in the sand,” Kuroo growled, and Tsukishima shouldn’t like that sound so much, but he did.

“Kuroo-san! I’m a pro! You can’t injure me!” Lev complained but Kuroo turned away from him, wiping his hands on his shorts—done with Lev’s shenanigans.

“Are you ready? We have a long day ahead of us.” None of that revealed much about where Kuroo was taking Tsukishima but looking up at him, bedhead included, painted a delightful picture. Kuroo had succeeded in making Tsukishima feel something for first time in a year, and Tsukishima, like a moth to a flame, wanted to _feel_ even more.

He nodded.

Kuroo’s plan didn’t involve him walking around shirtless, but Tsukishima wished it had. After changing into a pair of jeans—they made Tsukishima hyperaware of his own naked legs—and a baggy white T-shirt that hugged Kuroo’s shoulders, they embarked on their day.

The afternoon was buzzing with energy, students all around them in their summer best, tank tops and shorts revealing what the previous season had hidden with mufflers, gloves, and jackets. Now, the very air around them felt charged with potential. They walked side by side, Kuroo’s large case hanging off one shoulder, while Tsukishima grasped the straps to his case, unsure of what to expect.

“I’ll tell you this: I learned everything I know about playing the guitar by being too stubborn to quit. I don’t have any training nor am I some musical genius. I just know what sounds good,” Kuroo said, eyes fixed on the horizon. His words felt practiced, as if he’d rehearsed them and said them to someone one too many times.

Tsukishima tilted his head. “Why are you so serious, Kuroo-san? I didn’t peg you for someone concerned with enough brain cells to be bothered with what anyone thought.” Sure, Tsukishima admired the guy and thought of him with nothing short of inappropriate _want_ but that didn’t mean he’ll _show_ it.

Kuroo dropped the serious expression and there was that grin again, easy and surprised at Tsukishima’s candor. “Tsukki! As expected from a high schooler, you hold nothing back.”

“I’ve graduated.”

“Two days ago! That barely frees you from your student days shackles.”

That rankled, but he bit back his irritation. “Ah, yes, I’m at the beginning of my life. I haven’t even peaked yet. What about you, Kuroo-san? You’re only, what, a year or two older than me and achieved what? Have you made any progress as an upstanding citizen?” He delivered that last question with a final finger pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Kuroo stared at him, mouth slack, and eyebrow jumping up so close to his hairline it threatened to kiss it. “You—you’ve got a mouth on you!”

Too pleased with his own achievement of dumbfounding Kuroo, Tsukishima walked ahead, as if he had any clue where they were going.

Thankfully, Kuroo grabbed his arm, again leaving an imprint of warmth on Tsukishima’s arm, and led them towards a music shop where one wall was lined with amps of all kinds of sizes and shapes, another covered with tiny rectangles, and there were rooms at the back, where people held guitars, basses, and even on keyboards. He assumed the space was soundproof.

“I wanted to show you a little of my world, Tsukki. There’s a lot to explore with guitars. It isn’t just rock and roll twenty-four-seven. Like, check these out. They’re called pedals. They produce effects and can really change the sound you’re trying to make.”

Tsukishima inspected the specific, tiny rectangle in Kuroo’s hand—it fit snugly in his large palm. He shouldn’t be looking at Kuroo’s fingers, long and calloused at the tips and imagine them around his wrist, so he averted his attention to the device.

“What does it _do_ , really?”

“This one is a distortion pedal. It’s supposed make the guitar sound really…awesome.”

Tsukishima’s face slackened at the vague explanation, then he caught on to what Kuroo was preparing to do. He was removing his case and unzipping it open.

“Wait, are you just going to try it on? I’m too young to go to jail,” he hid his worry behind a snarky remark—per usual.

Kuroo’s grin turned vicious, and Tsukishima felt it down to his toes. “Tsk—not so daring, eh, Mr. Prime of His Youth?”

Kuroo shouldn’t sound so sexy, when his baritone turned impossibly deeper, as if he were peeling back all of Tsukishima’s reservations and setting his mind on fire. Tsukishima tightened his hold on the case straps and ignored the pitter-patter of his heartbeat.

He was promptly instructed to sit down while Kuroo got someone’s permission to plug his guitar to pedal. Tsukishima didn’t expect much, not since he’d already heard Kuroo play and he’d had a taste of the kind of reaction the sound produced in him. Yet, with the pedal, the guitar’s usual sharpness turned into a deep, husky sound, too difficult to explain, which made him sympathize with Kuroo’s lack of clarity when talking about it. The melody Kuroo played was heavy and fast, yet it tapered into a soft ending. It was barely more than thirty seconds, but in the span of half a minute, Tsukishima’s body was transferred to a wide edge, staring down at something so unknown yet so sought-after.

“So, how was it?” Kuroo looked so earnest, looking up from his perch on the floor of the shop. Did he even care that he was sitting somewhere on which hundreds of dirty shoes walked?

“But—Kuroo-san, why are you showing me pedals? I don’t even know how to play the guitar.”

Kuroo tilted his head to the side, looking at Tsukishima squarely in the eyes. “Well, that’s easy. You want to make music, don’t you?”

That was as rhetoric of a question as someone asking him if he felt hot in the sun. _Yes_. _Absolutely_. He wanted to feel the ecstatic wave of being he’d felt last night before his heart was crushed by memory. It troubled him that Kuroo could read him so easily, see, in his heart of hearts, what he’d been aching to reach.

Tsukishima didn’t hope to ever understand Akiteru entirely, he’d severed that line himself, when he’d acted so coolly to his brother, choosing to hide his awe and fascination behind a thin veneer of disinterest. Look at how far that had taken him. Bereft and floating above his body, experiencing life second-hand. Last night was one of the first times he’d felt truly present, like he was capable of cutting himself a slice of what everyone was having. Passion. Purpose. Fun. He wanted it more than he’d wanted anything else.

Well, not more than he wanted Akiteru back, but that was a secret he couldn’t reveal to anyone. He swallowed back the ball in his throat, aware of how the shop was semi-busy and that he detested losing his composure alone, nevertheless in front of a crowd.

“And you’ll teach me, Kuroo-san? You don’t have any musical training. Should I trust you that much?” He knew every word was a challenge of Kuroo’s expertise, but he couldn’t help it. Tsukishima couldn’t take them back because they made Kuroo’s eyes widen, then relax in a cocky, knowing look. Like he’d comfortably seen into Tsukishima’s heart and had him all figured out, only for Tsukishima to throw him off.

Kuroo looked at Tsukishima like he was a puzzle he wanted to pull apart then figure out a way to make better. Tsukishima should be offended at the naked curiosity in Kuroo’s eyes, yet it thrilled him to be an object of his concentration.

“Fine, Tsukki. Let’s strike a deal. You will learn how to change your own guitar string, and I’ll learn the basics of the guitar. Okay?”

He offered Tsukishima his hand, his large, calloused palm awaiting.

“What do I get out of this besides a basic skill? You’re not giving me a good motive, Kuroo-san,” he replied, folding his arms in front of him, telling Kuroo with his entire body that Kuroo wasn’t getting a deal out of him.

Tsukishima swore he could see a vein bulge in Kuroo’s forehead. “Sneaky, but fine, let’s raise the stakes. If by next month, I prove to be a savvy enough teacher that you you can perform an entire song without a single mistake, I’ll buy you the distortion pedal.”

The challenge was simple. He was to stop by and practice every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday at Gym 3’s sessions—Bokuto loved to call them Jam Seshs but neither Akaashi nor Kuroo paid much attention to him when he did. The look of absolute despair on Bokuto was both hilarious and yet pitiful. Tsukishima didn’t know if he was impressed by Bokuto’s enthusiasm or absolute lack of sense. He chose instead to absorb as much of Gym 3’s sound as he could. He spent the first hour of the four they rented out the spot learning the basics, and that meant a lot of arguing with Kuroo.

Tsukishima refused to take any of the studying in his hands, proclaiming to have a supposedly apt teacher. Kuroo, however, kept making up weird names for the chords and it only made Tsukishima trust him less by each session.

“Come on, Tsukki, just—play! The guitar is fun, isn’t it?” Kuroo was sounding like a primary school teacher, begging its student to take a nap. Tsukishima was offended by his own mind’s metaphor. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t understand Kuroo’s weird lessons.

Tsukishima refused to relax. He’d been trying to convince Kuroo to learn the actual names of chords but to no avail. They’d gotten nowhere beyond Tsukishima strumming and letting Kuroo move his left hand when he got his fingers in the wrong spot.

“This is old lady; it makes a really Gwah! sound come out.”

Tsukishima’s frown grew more severe.

Kuroo sighed again, then leaned back, a hand shoved into his hair, turning it a more wicked mess.

“You’ll get nowhere with him, Tsukki,” Bokuto said, a laugh clear in his voice as he set up his bass. Oh yeah, in other marvelous (sarcastic) news, Bokuto had begun calling him Tsukki. Tsukishima made a mental note to make Yamaguchi buy him a year’s worth of strawberry shortcakes for that alone.

“I can’t learn something that doesn’t exist,” he replied to Kuroo, which only made his inept teacher groan and flop back.

The door to their studio cracked open. Bokuto brightened up impossibly so. “All right, Akaashi is here, let’s start the jam sesh and deal with Tsukki’s stubbornness later.”

Tsukishima opened his mouth to retort that he wasn’t the only stubborn one around, but Kuroo was picking himself off, graceful and fluid, his guitar like another part of himself he’d learned to manipulate.

Akaashi greeted them quietly, and Tsukishima was pleasantly surprised to see him in thick-rimmed glasses. Akaashi was dressed somehow formally in a dark blue jacket and a button up shirt, but the first was discarded, and the second got its sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He sat behind his drum-set like a reigning monarch, every line of his body prepared to deliver.

“Are we practicing _Sunlight Beam_?” Kuroo asked.

Bokuto looked back at Akaashi and the latter nodded.

Tsukishima knew that the band had its small list of songs they were developing. _Sunlight Beam_ was their latest; a refreshing summer jam of which the lyrics were about the endless possibilities of youth. The irony wasn’t lost on him but Tsukishima wasn’t bothered by that for long.

He’d gotten into the routine of plugging his own guitar into an amp and with his headphones on, practice the same chord Kuroo managed to convince him to try.

Today was no different. He looked down at his hands, sure that he could get this down, if only he had a better instructor.

Yet, looking up at Kuroo, sweat rolling off his grinning face, eyebrows screwed in concentration, body moving with the guitar as if dancing with a partner, Tsukishima couldn’t bring himself to want someone else to teach him.

Kuroo Tetsuro, with all of his confusing half-assed explanations and made up names, was slowly allowing Tsukishima a bite of that something more he’d tasted that night.

Ignoring the yawning, hungry beast inside him, Tsukishima was aware that picking up Kuroo’s challenge went further for him than a distortion pedal, but finding the missing key to unlocking his shackles.

He kept up at practicing with the band, before, during, and after their group sessions until his phone rang, his mother checking up on him and reminding him to come back at a reasonable hour.

That was his sign that he should get his things and go home, and as if on auto-pilot, Kuroo would also wrap up the session, Akaashi and Bokuto going off together. He’d stare at them sometimes, wondering about the looks Akaashi had for the bassist, but he didn’t dare to put his nose where it didn’t belong.

“Still don’t think you should bother coming with me, Kuroo-san,” he said for the fourteenth time. Half of a month had passed since the time Tsukishima was first allowed into Gym 3’s private little world, and he still couldn’t get used to having someone walk him to the train station. He wasn’t some maiden. His cheeks heated up at the image he had in his mind.

“Still don’t think you’re adult enough to be walking alone at 10 o’clock, Tsukki,” Kuroo made sure to say the last in a teasing, saccharine voice that went right to Tsukishima’s head. He wanted to both kick the guy’s ass and bruise his lips with a kiss.

Tsukishima was going through puberty all over again, and he had no one to blame but Kuroo.

The train arrived on time, as usual, and he walked into the awaiting car, raising the usual hand in goodbye, except this felt different now. When he walked, Tsukishima didn’t feel weighed down by the burden of the guitar on his back, rather, he felt buoyed by the hope that tomorrow, he had a mission to carry on.

And if that mission included wanting to impress the socks off Kuroo, then that was no one’s business but his own.


	4. The Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys discuss part-time jobs, the future (and all the ways it hurts Akaashi's stomach), and how to add a little rock'n'roll into Tsukishima's attitude.

“Guys. This is a serious meeting. This could decide our future as a band.”

Unfortunately for Akaashi, neither Bokuto nor Kuroo cared much about the future of their band, and were instead keen to get the most pieces of meat from the grill. Tsukishima watched them with a thin layer of disgust and wonder. This wasn’t the first batch of meat they’d been grilling.

“Bokuto-san! Kuroo-san! Are you even listening?”

“Nope, sorry, Akaashi, but this is a matter of life or meat.”

“I assume you choose meat over your life,” Tsukishima muttered, chuckling to himself.

Kuroo nodded quickly. “Absolutely.”

Except by then, Bokuto had already grabbed not one but three pieces of meat off the grill, plopping them into his mouth, uncaring that it might burn his tongue. What was burnt flesh to a man on a mission to piss off his friend? Kuroo was supremely pissed off, yelling at Bokuto for being “a greedy owl” and “an uncivilized asshole.”

Tsukishima was immensely amused and shared a knowing look with Akaashi, the latter simply looked too familiar with the two’s way of diverging every meeting’s purpose to fit their needs. This was supposedly their middle of month meeting, and Tsukishima’s belated welcome to the band party.

It’d been a little over three weeks since Tsukishima joined their sessions, and he wasn’t getting very far, but at least now, when he held his brother’s guitar, he didn’t only feel the gaping hole in his chest, but a determination to get better. He had a little over a week to master the song Kuroo taught him. One of Gym 3’s favorites, Moonlight was none other than a love song that made Tsukishima want to throw his guitar aside whenever he caught himself humming it at home.

“Will you two stop shoveling food into your mouths and listen to me? Kenma-san has great news.” Akaashi looked a bit too worried for Tsukishima’s liking. The man was always an image of unruffled self-assurance. Apparently, Tsukishima wasn’t alone in the club of boys pretending to be okay.

“What news?” Kuroo said with a full mouth of food. Had Tsukishima not spent the greater part of his nights remembering Kuroo’s calloused fingers and imagining them in his hair, his tiny crush would have disintegrated by now.

Alas, it held strong.

“Yaku-san and Kai-san are holding a concert in two weeks’ time and apparently The Foxes have cancelled their appearance. Something about their singer quitting to start an Onigiri shop. Anyway, Kenma-san says they want _us_ to fill in The Foxes’ spot.” Tsukishima knew that Kenma worked as the band’s technical support, while Akaashi was the unspoken leader.

Bokuto’s mouth gaped, staring at Akaashi as if he’d just revealed the secrets to the universe. “This is it! This is our break!” he said, breathless with a voice pitched higher than what was socially acceptable in a family restaurant.

“I doubt a small concert could get us very far off the ground, but yes. It’ll be a challenge,” Akaashi confirmed.

Tsukishima, however, couldn’t muster neither Akashi’s quiet enthusiasm nor Bokuto’s outright delight. He chose to be quiet and think of how the hell he was going to not only walk into a concert hall (size unimportant) but play as well.

He literally was a novice who picked up a guitar a little under a month. He… he couldn’t play in front of an audience. It’d be a pathetic attempt to be someone he wasn’t. Someone passionate and…talented.

That had always been Akiteru. Not Kei.

A foot tapped his under the table, successful in startling him out of his reverie. He looked up to find Kuroo staring at him. Eyes intent and mouth a straight line behind the hand he rested on his chin.

“Are you up for it, Tsukki? You just began playing the guitar.” Despite his words, Kuroo wasn’t giving him an out. He was staring at Tsukishima with expectation. He wanted to see how Tsukishima was going to react to this new challenge.

“Oh yeah! Tsukki! You can barely jakka-jakka now! How will you be anywhere decent enough to impress the girls?” Bokuto had entirely wrong ideas about who Tsukishima wanted to impress.

He took a sip of his oolong tea.

“I doubt I’ll be worse than you on your off days, Bokuto-san,” he said calmly, which descended havoc over their table, beginning with a loud whine from Bokuto, then followed by Akaashi smiling and saying,

“You’re right.”

“Not you too, Akaashi!” That was Bokuto, launching himself across the table to press his large hands on Akaashi’s shoulders. Next to Tsukishima, Akaashi’s smile widened and eyes shined behind his glasses. He wore them more often now.

“What the hell is jakka-jakka, anyway?” Kuroo said, poking Bokuto in an attempt to calm him down.

“I don’t know. All guitarists do is play some jakka-jakka sounds. My bass has more of bam and wham sounds.”

“Listen to yourself. It’s like your vocabulary has reverted back to primary school,” Tsukishima mumbled, picking up a piece of meat to munch on.

Kuroo was too busy giving Bokuto’s hair a good round of ruffling to reply, but Tsukishima didn’t miss the way Kuroo’s mouth turned up in a brilliant curve at the barb.

“There’s also the matter of next month’s renting fees. I have to pick up more hours at the bookstore to cover my part if we’re going to practice more.” Akaashi had a pencil and notebook in hand, marking down a long list.

“You have a part-time job?”

Akaashi looked up. “We all do.”

Kuroo and Bokuto stopped roughhousing. “I am a waiter at special events, delivery for a BBQ shop, and I volunteer for the art club in university.”

Tsukishima was immediately jealous of those art students, getting to stare at Kuroo without worry of how their looks might be interpreted. Then he was curious how Kuroo looked, waiting on tables. Did he wear a vest? A bow-tie? The possibilities were endless.

“Yeah, yeah, Kuroo loves being a muse. Though how you style that bedhead you call hair into something decent, I have no idea.”

“You’re one to talk, horned owl bastard.”

Then Kuroo was back on Bokuto, ruffling his hair, pinching his cheeks, and even stealing the bite right off his chopsticks with terrifying dexterity.

“What does Bokuto-san do?” Tsukishima didn’t see the two stopping any time soon, so he asked Akaashi.

“Apparently he has two sponsors already and works part-time at a moving company. Besides, any second he has not playing Volleyball is spent either working or practicing.”

Tsukishima’s body ached just imagining the kind of strain Bokuto must be putting on himself to carry out such a lifestyle. He wondered if Bokuto would ever have to choose between volleyball or music, but the future was too far off.

“Something tells me you’re thinking of very serious things, Tsukishima-kun,” Akaashi said, smile small as he ate.

“It’s just… I don’t know how Bokuto-san can balance all of that. Doesn’t he have to choose one or the other?”

Akaashi took a minute to think, expression turning pensive. “Well, he’s just starting in his college team, so who knows what will happen.”

“What about you, Akaashi-san? Won’t you have to choose between music or…what are you studying?”

“Literature.”

He raised an impressed eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on that?”

Akaashi’s eyebrows pinched in the middle. “Tsukishima-kun, you’re making my stomach hurt from thinking. Let’s please postpone this until after we have our first live, shall we?”

Embarrassed he’d concerned Akaashi with unnecessary worries, he nodded and went back to finishing up his relatively smaller portion.

“I wonder if I should get a part-time job,” Tsukishima suggested.

“Well…” Akaashi’s glasses shined then, making him look more sinister than Tsukishima had ever imagined to be possible. Producing three job vacancy magazines, he placed them in front of Tsukishima.

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

“Yep. This is a familiar sight,” Kuroo mused. “This is how we all got started on part-time jobs.”

Akaashi turned towards jobs that didn’t require much experience. He pointed to one, “This is a newly opened dessert café. They need waiters. Maybe you can do that, Tsukishima.”

Tsukishima eyed the ad and took out his phone to write down the information. “Sounds easy.”

Akaashi treated him to a toothy grin, approving of Tsukishima’s willingness to invest in the band’s practice.

“Hey, don’t ignore your food. Eat up. You’re a growing boy,” Kuroo interrupted, and Tsukishima’s smile was replaced with a frown. “I’m almost eighteen, so I doubt I need to eat for three people.”

“But you’re like a beanpole! Girls like a little meat on their guys, you know,” Bokuto said, as if he’d had a hundred women hanging off of him.

“Unlike you, I don’t burn three thousand calories playing excruciating sport, so no thanks.”

Kuroo burst into laughter. “Once Kou-chan stops playing volleyball, he’ll have a proper gut. I can’t wait to see it,” he sing-sang, poking Bokuto’s chest.

Bokuto took it personally and stole two of the pieces of meat on Kuroo’s plate.

Later, walking out of the restaurant, they settled into their routine of Bokuto and Akaashi in the front, while Kuroo walked slow and relaxed alongside Tsukishima. He had both hands behind his neck, looking up at the sky, trying to spot some stars but light pollution had made that nearly impossible in the busy city.

“Say, Tsukki, what are you going to study?”

The question wasn’t exactly out of nowhere considering their topic at dinner, but Tsukishima still needed a minute to think. “I think…history.”

“Ahhhhhh. A historian in our midst, how sophisticated.”

He wanted to punch Kuroo’s arm for the way he leaned towards him with that impossible grin alone, but Tsukishima had long ago learned how to curb his reactions. So, he simply raised an eyebrow until Kuroo’s grin turned sheepish for the bad joke.

“Don’t mind me. I think all that meat ate up some of my brain-cells.”

“No wonder,” he muttered.

Kuroo chuckled, but it was soft and not quite as joyful.

“You’re getting better, by the way, I don’t think you’ll flub it entirely the day of the live.”

Tsukishima doubted it. “Are you just saying that because you’re my instructor?”

Kuroo grinned. “Well, of course! You have the best mentor! Also… no. I noticed that you work hard. Your head is always whirring, isn’t it? Working on how to coordinate between your hands without staring down all the time.”

Now, this, stopping in the middle of the street and grabbing Tsukishima’s hand, was out of nowhere. Tsukishima’s heart took it as a sign to start evacuating out of his chest, pounding in his ears in alarm. He took a deep breath and waited to see what Kuroo was about to do.

Kuroo traced the calluses Tsukishima’s fingers were growing. Tsukishima applied hand cream nightly, worried they would never soften, but now, having Kuroo touch them, eyes bright and eyebrows lifted as if to say, “see?” made him proud.

“Yeah, well, I want that distortion pedal.”

Kuroo let go of his hand, making Tsukishima wish he could have held it all the way to the station. Alas. The world didn’t go as Tsukishima wanted.

“You can’t lie to me, Tsukki. I see how your face scrunches in frustration when you make mistakes. How you look down at your guitar as if asking it to help you. I see it all,” Kuroo said the last with a knowing look.

Tsukishima felt all at once exposed and irritated for said exposure. Kuroo had no business openly seeing into his soul because right behind Tsukishima’s desire to have a drop of Akiteru’s passion were his indecent thoughts of what he wanted to do to Kuroo hands, mouth, and unbearably powerful body.

He frowned now, thinking it best to simply deny, deny, and deny. “You’re overthinking it, Kuroo-san. I doubt I’ll blow anyone’s mind during the live, but the least I can do is not pull a Bokuto-san original.”

Kuroo cackled, properly distracted now when Bokuto’s wild mood swings were mentioned. Over the past couple of sessions, exhausted from volleyball practice, Bokuto arrived sweaty and in a foul mood, making mistakes in songs he should have memorized by now. He’d even sigh to himself and mutter how one played a decent scale—which was, Akaashi had later informed Tsukishima, one of the most basic techniques. These outbursts amused Kuroo but shortened Akaashi’s life span. He quite visibly winced when Bokuto was in a funk and had many plans of action to shake him out of them.

Tsukishima was content with watching Akaashi perform miraculous rescues, turning a hopeless Bokuto into his usual confident self with a couple of chosen words of encouragement.

That talent, Tsukishima was sure, would make Akaashi a talented school teacher, if he ever considered it as a career.

“That’s not very youthful of you, Tsukki. A guy like you should strive for blowing everyone out of their seats! You should be excited!” Kuroo pumped a fist in the air.

“Yeah… I’ll leave that to you and Bokuto-san.”

The dejection in his voice only riled Kuroo even further.

“No way, no way! This isn’t good, Tsukki. You’re in a band now. You’re a rocker. You can’t settle for being an unknown entity.”

Akaashi interfered quietly, “Don’t you think you’re pressuring him too much, Kuroo-san? He’s only seventeen.”

“So? You’re eighteen. Age is nothing! There is no number for coolness! We gotta fix that attitude of yours, Tsukki,” Kuroo declared, wrapping an arm around Tsukishima’s neck, pulling him closer.

“Oho,” Akaashi sighed.

“Oho ho?” Kuroo added with a gleeful grin.

“Oho ho ho?” Bokuto added. The entire exchange exasperated Tsukishima.

“Does this mean Tsukki is getting a makeover?” Bokuto was practically airborne with excitement.

Tsukishima didn’t know what a makeover constituted but he knew he wasn’t going to survive it. Yet, it felt good to be under Kuroo’s arm and to have him whisper,

“Meet me tomorrow for your new look, Tsukki.”

That sounded a lot like a date, and although Tsukishima had a decent head on his shoulders, there was nothing to be said about the excited thump-thump of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is excited for the band's first live performance? Will Tsukishima be all right in Kuroo's hands? 
> 
> In other news, I'm taking a couple of days off to write a big portion of the story and will be back on Monday with, hopefully, something completed.


	5. Worth Pursuing

The dessert shop was overwhelmingly pink. Tsukishima took a step inside, then had to turn and walk out. He took deep gulps of air. There. He could do this. Think of the band. Think of helping Akaashi. He walked back inside. Takeda, who interviewed him, was a sweet-mannered, quiet man who was impressed by Tsukishima’s size and seriousness.

He showed him around the shop, explained how the place catered a lot to its lady customers, hence the theme. Tsukishima listened with a stony expression. He needed to remind himself of Akaashi’s furrowed expression and bear through it every three minutes or so.

He was handed a black apron, and instructed to dress in a pressed button-up shirt and a pair of black slacks for his shifts.

“Keep your glasses,” Takeda said ominously.

This, Tsukishima was disappointed to find out, fit his image of the bespectacled, reticent waiter, which was the last piece in Takeda’s vision for the store. The other staff of the café were: serious, bespectacled female waiter—who went by Shimizu, cheerful, puppy-like Inouka, and a nervous Yachi who mostly dealt with the register due to her easily-frightened nature.

During his first shift, Tsukishima listened carefully to his senpai, a cheerful Sugawara who part-timed during the summer to help with college fees. Despite being the oldest, Sugawara didn’t resist the urge to goof off.

“Not to brag, but I’m kind of the most popular here,” Sugawara said, pushing an index finger under his chin and giving Tsukishima his best smolder.

Ah, this was going to take everything out of him. He kept out of Sugawara’s way, noting down the steps it took Shimizu to make a perfectly normal if not boring cup of café latte (which was later adorned by cutesy toppings that made the patrons squeal and pull out their phones to snap a minimum of twenty pictures), kept all of the tables clean and made sure to greet his customers with Takeda’s required, “Have a sweet day,” despite how it twisted Tsukishima’s mouth into a bitter frown. He noticed that Inouka was the cheeriest when greeting the customers so he entrusted the boy to make up for his own rigidity.

By the end of his first day, he changed out of his uniform quickly, fingers aching to strum at his guitar, feel its weight in his arms, listen to its sharp sounds. He’d caught himself tapping his fingers on the surface of the counter in an unfamiliar song, waiting for an order from Sugawara. The melody played in his head incessantly.

There wasn’t time to stop by the music studio, though, since Kuroo kept texting him erratically once his shift ended.

**Kuroo: Tsukki** **ଲ** **(** **ⓛ** **ω** **ⓛ** **)** **ଲ** **don’t forget our date! ! ! Meet me at Nyancuts at 6!**

He looked down distastefully at Kuroo’s text but not even the emoji could hold back his heart from beating wild in his chest. A quick search brought up Nyancuts, which was a fifteen-minute walk, so he put on his headphones, listened to the recording of Moonlight (a Gym 3 original), and tried to pick apart its pieces to their bare parts. He was proud of himself for recognizing Bokuto’s bass, rumbling, Akaashi’s energetic drumming, and Kuroo’s ever-present guitar, fast-paced and exciting.

Nyancuts was a small salon with a glass front covered in cat-shaped stickers. Inside, he found Kuroo leaning against the counter, talking to a short guy with light-hair and three piercings on his face. Tsukishima took a deep breath. He recognized him from the video Akaashi sent him of the band that will be proceeding them during their live performance.

“Tsukki! You came! Right on time, too. All right. We have no time to waste. Tsukki meet Yaku Morisuke, he’s going to take care of…” He pointed vaguely to Tsukishima’s head. “Yakkun, the future of our band relies on you. No pressure.”

“Pointing is rude, Kuroo-san.” He gave Yaku a quick greeting, to which he received an amused grin. The lip-ring Yaku wore glinted.

Yaku lightly punched Kuroo’s stomach, eliciting an exaggerated groan, then directed Tsukishima to a vacant chair.

“I personally don’t see why _I_ have to change my hair when Mr. Rooster is fine as he is,” Tsukishima muttered.

Kuroo grinned, “Oh, Tsukki, you think I’m _fine_!”

Yaku ignored him. “His hair resists all gels and attempts at fixing it and he refuses to change the way he sleeps.”

“Huh?”

“It’s because he bunches his pillow around his head. Didn’t you know?” Yaku explained the mystery of why Kuroo’s hair looked ready for take-off.

Kuroo amused himself by going over to a dark-haired stylist’s side, asking him endless questions, sniffling bottle of what Tsukishima assumed were shampoo, and getting leery whenever he looked back at them.

“He’s a piece of work, don’t let him boss you around.”

Tsukishima looked at his reflection. He wasn’t particularly letting Kuroo do anything, but he was curious as to how he might look if he did allow for a change. Besides, wasn’t this summer all about that?

“So, Tsukishima-kun, are you up for a little makeover?”

He didn’t miss the way Kuroo’s head turned to them; his trademark sinister grin fixed on his mouth. He nodded. “Let’s do it.”

His makeover consisted of a little hair coloring that Yaku promised was “low maintenance” into a shade that was best described as ash blond. Tsukishima tried to settle down and trust the professional, except Kuroo kept showing up over his head while he was getting his hair washed to gasp and make weird faces.

“Tsukki! With this, we’ll gain a following for sure.”

“Promise me you’ll shave his head, Yaku-san,” he mumbled, eyes closing because this close, Tsukishima could pinpoint a small scar on Kuroo’s chin he’d not seen before.

Yaku promptly kicked Kuroo out of their way and assured Tsukishima that Kuroo will get his due.

Back in his chair, Tsukishima wasn’t disappointed with the result. His hair was definitely lighter, and when Yaku explained it, he could see how it was cooler in tone than before. “This shampoo, which Kuroo is so kindly buying for you, will keep it from going brassy so make sure to use it, okay?”

He nodded, still squinting at himself. He’d taken his glasses off, so he couldn’t see his own expression that well. He frowned. His image wasn’t any less distorted.

“Tsukki, you should get contact lens.” It bothered him more that he couldn’t see Kuroo’s expression.

“I… I don’t like them.”

“Why not?” Kuroo poked around, then looked at him through the mirror when Tsukishima didn’t reply. He couldn’t open his mouth and tell him that, without his glasses, he looked a lot like his older brother. He calmly put on his glasses again, swallowing the thickening emotion in his throat. Looking at his reflection without glasses would be another knife in his side, reminding him of what he wasn’t. He ignored the irony of how he was spending every hour of his day to learn the one thing his brother left him yet couldn’t face his grief directly.

“Don’t bother him, dumbass,” Yaku came to his rescue, pushing Kuroo away.

Tsukishima evaded Kuroo’s eyes, a feeling like ants crawling up and down his arms worrying him that whatever wall behind which he tried to hide his heart would crumble if faced with Kuroo’s naked curiosity. Kuroo insisted on paying the bill for his makeover, and Tsukishima didn’t even dare suggest to halve the amount. If he wanted Tsukishima to have hair that shined like starlight, then he could pay for it. Outside, hand full of a bag of hair products, courtesy of Yaku, whose eyes gleamed when Kuroo brought out his wallet, Tsukishima wondered what was next for them.

“Whoa, all that spending sure builds an appetite. Let’s go for ramen, yeah?” Without waiting for his response, Kuroo swooped and took the bag of products from Tsukishima’s hand, marching towards a ramen restaurant.

“I can carry those,” he argued.

“Now, what kind of senpai would I make if I let you walk around with these heavy bottles all day long?”

His cheeks flushed at the image they made, walking side by side, spending the day together. “It wasn’t me who suggested it,” he mumbled.

Kuroo grinned. “Still, you look so cool now. Like you could turn an entire room’s heads towards you.”

Tsukishima kept his mouth shut just in case his heart decided to beat its way out of his lips thanks to Kuroo’s remark. He frowned at the back of Kuroo’s head, wished he could figure out just a bit of what the man thought of.

“Shouldn’t we be taking this time to practice? I won’t get better with a new hairstyle.”

Kuroo looked back over his shoulder. He’d been walking leisurely, arms thrown back behind his head, dressed in light denim jeans, ripped at the knees, and a black T-shirt that showed off his collarbones. Tsukishima had gotten a good glance down that T-shirt back in the salon and his stomach took a flip whenever he recalled it.

“Today is our day off. Besides, I think if you practice any more, you’ll surpass me and we can’t have that.”

“That’s a bit harsh, Kuroo-san. We both know I’m mediocre at best.”

Kuroo gave him a startlingly stern look. “Do you really believe that?”

He gulped. “Well, I’m not a genius, that’s for sure.” Akiteru had an ear for things that he didn’t have. The knowledge that he’ll never truly be as faithful to his brother’s sound weighed him down.

“Is that all there is to it? To be a genius? If no one tried because they weren’t a genius, we would live in a quiet world. But look around us, Tsukki. I’d say no one really cares for being the best. As long as it’s fun, isn’t music worth pursuing?”

Kuroo stood in the middle of the busy sidewalk, uncaring for how he made people twist and curve around him. Tsukishima realized that he, as well, was obstructing the smoothness of foot traffic, but he felt held down by Kuroo’s look. _Don’t you dare move_ , it said, pinning his feet to the pavement.

Except the riot in his head refused to settle, prodding him, injuring his confidence with, “Don’t kid yourself,” and, “This is just a band to you.” He averted his eyes, not wanting Kuroo to read the hesitance in him. Kuroo didn’t deserve a person like him wasting his time.

“Music might not be fun, for now, but in due time, Tsukki, you’ll see it. Like I have. Like Bokuto and Akaashi, too. So, can we go get some ramen? I’m famished.”

“I’m sure poking and prodding and smelling shampoo was exhausting,” he retorted, receiving a brilliant grin in response. If Tsukishima could steal some of Kuroo’s grins to store in a jar, to open at moments he needed that extra shot of sunshine, he would.

The ramen shop was small, crowded, but the broth went down his throat like a warm hug and he sighed. Ramen was the best, and Kuroo kept placing beef into his bowl. “Eat, eat. Us guitarists need to build muscle.”

“I doubt that, Kuroo-san. Aren’t you just going to grow a gut this way?”

Kuroo frowned. “Well, where else would I rest my guitar, then?”

The ridiculous response was too much, Tsukishima covered his snort with a hand and stole a glance at the satisfied way Kuroo slurped his noodles.

They ate while Kuroo told Tsukishima all about his years playing volleyball, how he played against cunning teams and wanted so badly to crush Bokuto’s team.

“That damned owl. For someone so single-minded, he’s determined. Especially since he has Akaashi in his corner, reminding him to be sensible.”

“Akaashi has a tough job.”

Kuroo grinned. “That, he does. He enjoys it, though.”

“How long has the band been together?”

“Well…” Kuroo took a second to think. “It was all Bokuto’s idea, really. We ran into one another in a game on the beach and teamed up. After getting our ass kicked—there was this really cunning duo who went to Aobajohsai High and apparently were celebrating the setter’s acceptance into some team in Brazil? Or maybe it’s Argentina. Anyway, they wiped the sand with us, so I took Bokuto back to mine. He saw my guitar and the idea stuck. He picked up the drums so quickly, it pissed me off. Akaashi joined us after a week of Bokuto sending him endless texts. Apparently, Akaashi had been playing the bass on and off since he was five. Now, he’s what you might call a prodigy.”

Tsukishima ignored the pointed way Kuroo spoke of Akaashi, referring to his insecurity of how he was _average_. “Have _you_ played the guitar for long?”

Kuroo scratched his head. “I guess? It was always something I had in the back of my head. When I wasn’t dragging Kenma to play volleyball, I played the guitar. I was first into it, well, because of a girl. She liked a local band a lot, and we went to see a live concert on our first date.”

Tsukishima’s heart stopped. Kuroo was straight.

“Well, the date ended with me declaring myself bisexual and in love with the guitarist, so it didn’t end so well,” Kuroo finished.

Air rushed back into Tsukishima’s lungs. He needed a second to recover so he occupied himself by drinking water.

“You’re…quite the progressive one, Kuroo-san,” he said through the lump of hope in his throat.

Kuroo didn’t look phased at all, simply rested his chin on a propped-up hand and grinned, “Well, the guitarist turned out to be very good at teaching me how to play. That and… other things.”

Tsukishima made sure to make his glare as hot as possible as he clicked his tongue. “In the end, you’re after _that_ , huh, Kuroo-san. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Kuroo’s grin faltered, then he laughed. “Come on, we all go after things for the wrong reasons. Can you honestly tell me you were never tempted by a pair of cute legs?”

He wrinkled his nose. “That’s a bit base, Kuroo-san. People are more than their legs.”

“I don’t know. I appreciate legs too much.” That was said with a little too much of emphasis, allowing Tsukishima a second where he thought back to that day Kuroo’s eyes had looked _his_ legs up and down. Was this supposed to make him think this way? No way… right?

He cleared his throat, pushed his glasses up, and ignored the implication in Kuroo’s eyes. Putting all of his confusing feelings aside, Tsukishima was having fun. The conversation steered him all over the place, learning about Akaashi’s lyrics writing process (meticulous if not overly planned), Bokuto’s drumming (chaotic yet working well), and Kuroo’s way of getting all three of them in the same place three times a week (self-proclaimed “creative” but clearly horrific abuse of his power over Bokuto’s obsession with attention and Akaashi’s obsession with… Bokuto).

“Are you not bothered by it?” Tsukishima felt like he was betraying Akaashi by discussing his feelings with Kuroo.

He shrugged. “Not at all. Until Akaashi tells Bokuto, he’ll never get it. He’s always been a little dense,” he said, but Tsukishima couldn’t decide if he’d meant Akaashi or Bokuto. Funnily enough, it fit both of them.

“And you’ve never said anything?”

Kuroo shuddered. “Meddling with romance between band members is taboo within the rookie musician sphere. The golden rule is…hide it until it explodes and frankly, I give them two more years.”

After lunch, Tsukishima was seen off at the train station, as usual, Kuroo waving a hand and giving him a grin as bright as a June’s sun. His hair made a ripple of shock through his mother’s expression, but she said nothing besides, “It suits you.”

He went back to his bedroom after placing the bottles neatly in the bathroom. He stood in front of his mirror, took his glasses off, and looked carefully.

Akiteru smiled so often he had smiling lines bracketing his lips. Tsukishima pulled his lips with his fingers, trying to find the perfect expression to match the picture he had of the two of them. It was during Tsukishima’s first year of high school. At twenty-two, Akiteru had started his band and already had a loud girlfriend. He wondered now what Saeko was doing now. She played the drums in Akiteru’s band but Tsukishima hadn’t seen her since the funeral. Her tear-stricken face had gutted him; he’d wanted to run away from it so badly. He wondered what she might think of his hair, whether she’d care to watch his live. He pulled up her number from an old conversation—they mostly talked about Akiteru—and in a moment of bravery he hadn’t thought he possessed, he sent her a text.

Tsukishima Kei: I’m in a band now. Do you want to come and watch the live? It’s the next Saturday. At 8:30 p.m. [location sent]

He didn’t watch the conversation. The way his message went from delivered to seen, then those three dots. He didn’t hold his breath until Saeko replied with a thumbs up and “Okay.”


	6. A Week or So

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings. Feelings. Feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /sweats
> 
> This chapter felt tough to write because uh, there will be angst coming up and I'm a coward.

Seven days before their performance, Bokuto’s schedule was getting extremely packed, and was causing Akaashi premature wrinkles between his eyebrows. He was prone to showing up to practice in slacks and jackets, which Tsukishima learned were his work clothes. Tsukishima felt personally responsible of making Akaashi worry less, so he began practicing his riffs at any chance he had. His mother gave him weird looks whenever she caught him at six o’clock in the morning, still playing the guitar, before she headed out to work. He wrote it off to her being piqued he was investing so much time in something besides studying.

Six days before, Kuroo got the amazing idea to begin skateboarding and, as a result, fell and cut a gash through his eyebrow. Tsukishima’s heart had stopped for a second when he caught the sight of that heavy bandage.

“Only three stitches, Tsukki!” Kuroo said, proudly. Tsukishima’s hand itched to smack the living out of Kuroo, but seeing how Akaashi turned gray with worry, he curbed his murderous urges, and ignored how Kuroo’s grin faltered.

Five days before, Tsukishima showed up to the studio in his work uniform since he didn’t have the time to go home and change. Kuroo raised his head—the bandage was removed already—and gave him a decisively long leer and said, “Oya? What’s with the waiter boy get-up?”

Tsukishima got Akaashi’s blessing to give Kuroo a pointed click of his tongue, then proceeded to ignore him, keeping his burning face low and his mistakes minimal. It wasn’t until his eyes began drooping and his fingertips felt numb that he realized he didn’t make a single error during the two songs they were practicing. Sure, he was a bit slow and hesitant, but he managed to touch just the correct chords. Pride trickled into his blood.

Four days before the live, Akaashi showed up with his hair messed up and his cheeks red. And thirty minutes late. “Sorry.” He bowed deep then got behind his drum set, pushing up his bangs. No one really bothered to mention to Akaashi that he was deserving of a little break. The man was juggling a summer job as a junior reader at a publisher, as well as his summer classes. Bokuto took one look at Akaashi then wrapped him in a headlock, ruffling his hair.

“Come on, Akaashi, you know we don’t care about timing. As long as you’re here, we’ll be all right.”

Tsukishima looked away. The look on Akaashi’s face was too intimate to be up for his viewing. How everyone _but_ the object of Akaashi’s affection read his feelings so well was beyond Tsukishima. If he wasn’t caught up in his own dilemma of feelings, he might even pity the drummer.

They took a break on the third day, to which Akaashi’s voice went a pitch higher than usual, and Bokuto whined, but Kuroo stood firm in his decision. “You,” he said to Akaashi, “are almost ready to drop, and you,” he turned to Bokuto, who was leaning on his bass, “are a well of energy we simply can’t match.”

He didn’t bother turn to Tsukishima because he’d already cornered Tsukishima minutes after they’d walked into the studio. Sternly, Kuroo instructed that Tsukishima will not be “missing any more meals” and definitely “getting a good night’s sleep.”

Except, he stayed the entire day off in his bedroom, headphones on, guitar plugged, and his fingers moving. Seeing Akaashi, fervent and frantic, had triggered something inside him. Half of him detested how little time he had before he could make a passable impression on people who’d never heard him play before, and half of him didn’t understand _why._ He was running from something. Failure. Or disappointment. Either way, he didn’t want to be the weight bringing down the band. He saw how much this upcoming opportunity meant to them. Kuroo, who complained the least, had a wild energy to him that peeked through his playing. Gone was the easygoing senpai and was replaced by a guitarist encased with charisma thick enough to give Tsukishima pause. Sure, Kuroo still amused himself by walking by Tsukishima’s side after practice, leisurely and fluid, pretending that he didn’t wince when he’d accidentally snapped his guitar string but Tsukishima couldn’t unsee the desperation the three possessed.

The string snapping incident had happened halfway through _An Angel_ _’s Song_ , one of the smoother ballads that showcased Kuroo’s guitar skills with a solo halfway through and had such soulful lyrics that made tears spring up in Tsukishima’s eyes. No one had blinked when it happened, but the three still had shared a knowing look. Their unspoken leader had been in need of a break himself.

At around four, with a summer’s shower tapping against his window, Tsukishima got a text message.

**Yamaguchi: Wanna go for ice-cream?**

He replied with a quick, “In this weather?”

And received a vague emoji in response. One of those bug-eyed, excited ones along with a “I’m outside.” Worried for Yamaguchi’s sanity, he put down his guitar, picked up an umbrella, and let his mother know he’ll be out for a minute. Yamaguchi waited under an umbrella in front of Tsukishima’s house, his grin wide and his hair messy under a beanie. It wasn’t cold, really, but a wind blew gently alongside the sprinkling of rain. Tsukishima tightened his hold on his umbrella and walked over.

“You’ve been busy, huh?” Yamaguchi asked. He knew Tsukishima picked up a part-time job, and had seen him during one of his shifts. He never asked about why Tsukishima still carried the guitar case around.

He shrugged. He hadn’t kept the band a secret from Yamaguchi, exactly, but he was hesitant to tell him about the live. Yamaguchi was the only person Tsukishima could call friend and a big part of him wanted to show off his skill.

“Tadashi…” he began. There was no reason to hide it. Yamaguchi wouldn’t be hurt that Tsukishima picked up his brother’s guitar and was learning how to play and hadn’t told him.

“I saw you at the music store, Tsukki. You were with that rooster-head senpai from the beach.”

The words startled him. He bit his lower lip, waiting. Then Yamaguchi grinned. “You looked really…cool. I wanted to tell you that. It’s a bit awkward that you didn’t tell me you liked playing the guitar but it’s cool! We should play together some day.”

The relief escaping his chest shouldn’t feel that good, but he felt as if a weight had been lifted. It was true that he didn’t actively hide the part of him that yearned to find out what was so good about music to Akiteru, but he’d also built up this concern about what kind of image he presented; playing pretend. Deep down, for the past month, Tsukishima hadn’t truly believed he was any good. He still made Kuroo want to pull his hair out when he questioned him about certain parts of songs that a beginner could play.

“Do you think… he can see it,” he asked, and it shouldn’t hurt this much to bring it up.

Yamaguchi straightened in his seat, eyes sad and mouth turned into a twisted grimace. He’d known Akiteru as Tsukishima’s talented older brother, who ruffled his hair and asked him about his day. Yamaguchi would sometimes show up with his guitar and ask Akiteru for advice about how to sound better. Tsukishima had carelessly forgotten that he wasn’t the only person to lose an older brother.

“I think he does,” Yamaguchi murmured, voice thick, then raised a hand to wipe his eyes. Tsukishima looked out at the splatter of raindrops, pooling in one pothole, forming a perfect little circle. He wanted to step into it. Disturb it.

They never got the ice-cream Yamaguchi had wanted, instead, they sat down on one of the benches, under an awning, and talked about what their plans for the fall entailed. Tsukishima wasn’t too bothered about university, having received his acceptance. Yamaguchi was accepted into an engineering program he had plenty of concerns about.

“I don’t see why,” Tsukishima said. He twined his thumbs together, a little unsure if he was in any position to offer Yamaguchi a boost in confidence. “You’re dedicated and will do a good job in anything you try.”

Yamaguchi was quiet for a long minute, then he hurtled himself at Tsukishima, loud and calling, “Tsukki!” Tsukishima was sure the moisture in his shoulder was more than the spray he’d gotten when he stepped out from under his umbrella’s protection but he didn’t address it. Yamaguchi needed to do this, so Tsukishima let his best friend hold onto him. In a way, it allowed for a rock to dislodge, fall into the ravine where Tsukishima’s heart used to be, and it made for one less weight of the mountain he carried.

His shift at the dessert cafe was uneventful that night. Except the thought of a certain dark-haired guitarist kept popping into his mind. One day. Not even that. Less than a day. He’d gone less than a day and was already…not missing, really, but…he wanted to see Kuroo. Forty-five minutes before closing, the door opened and the bell rang to reveal one extremely piqued-looking Kuroo. It was fate, laughing at him, because it felt like his pining was being answered. _I should think of a million yen._ Tsukishima wasn’t required to put on a cheerful face, that was Inouka’s task, so he simply greeted, “Welcome to Yummy Yummy, how may I assist you?”

Kuroo’s face was agonizing to look at; he was half grinning and half biting his lip to keep himself from laughing. Tsukishima had that look memorized; it’s what Kuroo pulled when Bokuto went into another one of his miserable moods.

To think _he_ would make Kuroo make that face. It grated.

“A table for two, please.” Tsukishima hadn’t seen Kenma, who insisted Tsukishima drop the honorific when he spoke to him, but there he was, pudding-head lowered, but bundled up in a jacket despite the warm weather.

Kenma gave Tsukishima a nod and settled in a chair opposite Kuroo.

“This is really cute, Tsukki! I’m shocked it’s my first time here since you began working. You should give us good service, hm?” Kuroo leaned close, eyes half-lidded and mouth in a perpetual grin. Tsukishima kept a straight face and placed two pink hardback menus in front of them, then walked away with a quick, “’ll be back in a minute.”

“Say, say, Tsukishima, do you know that guy?” Sugawara’s eyebrow looked ready to launch off of his face.

“We’re in a band together.”

Sugawara nearly swallowed his tongue from the shock. Once he recovered, he interrogated Tsukishima, and despite Tsukishima’s extreme discomfort about revealing personal information in unnecessary situations, he told Sugawara about Gym 3.

“Eeeeeeeeh! I didn’t think of you as a guitarist at all… though… it explains the hair.”

He didn’t want to know—he really, really, didn’t need to know. But he asked anyway, “The hair?”

“Yeah! It’s… a bit cool, isn’t it? Like a rockstar.” He doubted it but the starry-eyed look Sugawara had was too bright to diffuse.

Thankfully, Sugawara got distracted by a customer requesting their bill and dropped the subject. Tsukishima waited until Kuroo drew his attention back. He couldn’t pinpoint just what soured his mood so much. Was it how _date-_ like the situation looked like? Kenma and Kuroo were childhood best friends, he’d known that much, but could there be more to their relationship? Was this _actually_ a date? A bitter taste lingered on his tongue as he took their order, keeping himself from snapping at Kuroo’s meaningless, interested questions. It was simply tasteless to be asking Tsukishima about how often he got confessed to by excited customers when Kuroo himself was on a date with Kenma.

Tsukishima busied himself with making the cafe latte—he was getting good at drawing basic flowers and leaves, since Shimizu was a patient instructor, and he whipped them up in no time. He was careful in placing the cups, and ignored the way Kuroo’s eyes sparkled at him when he saw the flower Tsukishima had made in his cup.

“This is so cute!” He even took out his phone and snapped a picture. Kenma looked content to do the same. He didn’t linger—he got them their order of one slice of tiramisu then went back to his spot behind the counter with Shimizu giving him a quiet nod for a job well done. He still felt a spike of pride whenever he got one of those because Shimizu rarely did anything that wasn’t utterly sincere.

Thirty minutes passed since Kuroo walked in with Kenma in tow, since Tsukishima’s stomach twisted in suspicion, since he wanted to sit with his head between his knees. He kept his eyes averted from _that_ table and ignored the twist of a dagger in his chest. What was happening to him? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to kick something so bad. By the time his last table requested the bill, Kuroo’s, he was simmering.

“Thank you for patronage. Have a sweet night,” he murmured, tone too bitter to be honest.

Kenma didn’t seem bothered, but Kuroo lingered even after paying. Tsukishima pointedly ignored him. He hadn’t heard a beep from the man the entire day.

They locked up on time, the cash register all counted and secure in the safe, Sugawara and Shimizu gave him a quick goodbye, then headed in their way. He knew from his first day that the two were high school friends, and that Shimizu was engaged to marry a girl she’d been dating since high school.

Much to his surprise, when he crossed the street to head in the direction of the train station, he glimpsed an altogether too familiar dark, disheveled head waiting for him. It was Kuroo, leaning against a pillar at the gate, his hands shoved into his pocket, his eyes downcast. Tsukishima wondered if he was napping, then Kuroo moved, eyes meeting his across the distance.

“Tsukki,” he murmured, walking towards him. Tsukishima’s body froze. Kuroo’s voice was urgent, almost as desperate as Bokuto would get when he wanted Akaashi’s praise. Kuroo didn’t stop until their bodies were inches apart, breathing heavy, his eyes sparkling behind his heavy fringe.

He pushed it back now, uncaring how messier his hair looked for it. “What’s wrong, Tsukki?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Tsukishima lied.

“Don’t. I can tell. You’re not… you’re not yourself.”

He took a step back, offended Kuroo would pretend to know what his true self was like. “That’s presumptuous, Kuroo-san. I said there’s nothing wrong with me.”

“And I said you’re lying.”

He hadn’t, really, but Tsukishima didn’t see the point of snapping for the sake of argument. He was more jarred by the clear hurt in Kuroo’s eyes.

“I thought—I thought you would be happy to see me, since…well, we didn’t have practice today.” Kuroo spoke quietly, his eyes falling down, and raised his hand to comb through his hair again.

“And whose fault is that, Kuroo? You canceled today’s practice, remember?” He sounded bitter even to his own ear, and he recoiled from it, wanting to hide his embarrassment for his outburst. What was he doing? He sounded like he’d been rejected.

He refused to look into Kuroo’s face, but that wasn’t much of a choice. Kuroo stepped close and touched his wrist. Tsukishima startled but the touch was a relief so he let it happen. He even liked how careful Kuroo was about tugging him close, behind a pillar, away from anyone who might be watching or eavesdropping onto their conversation.

Their very public, embarrassing conversation.

He moved to cover his face with his hands, overwhelmed with how unbearable it was to be looked at, when Kuroo spoke, “You missed me, eh?”

He scoffed. “As if.”

“Come on, Tsukki. Be honest for once.”

He looked up and was surprised to see that Kuroo didn’t look as confident as he sounded; his eyes were watching Tsukishima, and he was even biting his upper lip. Tsukishima relaxed. He wasn’t entirely alone in this awkward-laden situation.

“Did you?” he said pointedly.

“What?” Bastard clearly knew what Tsukishima meant.

“Miss me,” he continued in a whisper.

The blush taking up Kuroo’s face was so quick and charming that Tsukishima wanted to reach up and touch him and feel how warm it turned his cheeks. He refrained. They were still in public and he didn’t think he could do it and not pass out from excitement. He was helpless.

“I did. I missed you so much I dragged Kenma against his will to have dessert at nine o’clock.” The confession made his heartbeat spasm in his chest. Tsukishima was sure he wasn’t all right.

“So, you didn’t actually want to eat a slice of tiramisu?” he forced himself to say though all he wanted was to wrap his hands around Kuroo’s face and kiss his ridiculously handsome brow.

Kuroo’s face crumbled. “Of course not. I wanted to see you in your apron and… to tease you.” His words were almost too sweet to handle but Tsukishima had been starving so he gladly ate them up.

He really shouldn’t be so happy that he felt the grin splitting his face in two. He shouldn’t…yet he was. Kuroo didn’t look so happy, either, but he stood there and told Tsukishima how he felt anyway. The courage it must have taken baffled Tsukishima. Then, whether by proximity, or inspiration, Tsukishima opened his mouth and let out the only thing on his mind,

“I like you, Kuroo-san.”

There couldn’t be any confusion what kind of _like_ it was. Not when he stood in front of Kuroo, a blush burning his face, his eyes barely capable of meeting in a glance before looking away. He was a mess. And Kuroo knew exactly what he’d meant. Why else would he let out a sigh and lean slightly forward, rest his forehead against Tsukishima’s shoulder and say,

“You’re way too cute right now, Tsukki.”

A shiver ran down Tsukishima’s spine and he fisted his hands by his side, begging himself not to reach out and tug Kuroo closer, not to hug him in the train station, not to kiss Kuroo’s temple and soothe the frown between his eyebrows.

He didn’t receive an answer, technically, but he read it in the way Kuroo held himself at an angle, as if he, as well, was holding back.

The train arrived, unfortunately, right on time, the overhead operator’s voice as soothing and collected as usual—exactly the opposite of how Tsukishima felt. How did he go from suspecting Kuroo to be on a date to confessing his feelings? The sound startled him, pushed him out of the rosy-colored moment and back into bitter, gray reality where happy things didn’t last and older brothers were still buried long before their prime. The reminder jarred him and he blinked against the sudden onset of tears in his eyes.

“Excuse me,” he now muttered, hating the fact he needed to maneuver out from under Kuroo’s arm. He couldn’t stay where he was any longer.

He stepped towards the opening doors, then paused. He braved a look back and his stomach twisted at the way Kuroo was looking at him, longing so clear in his eyes it felt like it was a wave, slamming into Tsukishima. In a different time line, he’d be braver, more daring, able to rush back and take Kuroo’s hands in his, capable of speaking his truth a little louder, a little sterner. Give Kuroo no chance of brushing his feelings aside or himself to be cowardly.

But Tsukishima felt the farthest from his usual self. He felt so uncool and pathetic.

He turned away and stepped into the busier-than-usual train car, willing his heart to stop beating so erratically and for his mind to get a grip. 


	7. Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tsukishima hides from his feelings until they come crashing down.

Two days before the live, Tsukishima began avoiding Kuroo. After their only day off, Gym 3 resumed practice, same energy passing through them the second they walked into the studio. Akaashi looked better, eyes not so pinched and his body relaxed. He even gave Tsukishima a wink when they finished _Moonlight,_ which made Tsukishima blush and look away.

Bokuto looked unchanged, though he did have fewer mistakes by each passing time they rehearsed the song.

Kuroo… Tsukishima didn’t dare to look at Kuroo. Not even once. He attempted to sneak peeks at the guitarist, but the heat of embarrassment from his weak confession the previous night burned so brightly he worried he might get singed to oblivion. So, Tsukishima kept his head down and practiced his finger-work.

As if by agreement, Kuroo stayed away. He didn’t ignore Tsukishima—he still assisted him in getting a specific part of _An Angel_ _’s Song_ correctly, but other than that, there was no snark, no provoking Tsukishima into a little guitar battle, no inviting him for a meal halfway through. But what halted Tsukishima’s step, was when the band finished up their session for the day and Kuroo didn’t walk next to him. Head lowered, he drudged by Bokuto’s side, unaware of how much the widening distance between them hurt Tsukishima.

While the change in their dynamics was overlooked by Bokuto, Akaashi noticed. He even slowed down and took Kuroo’s space next to him while Tsukishima felt horrified at his actions.

 _He_ had done that; he’d brought down Kuroo’s spirits. A man, who looked ready to challenge the sun in brightness and win, was now looking like a kicked dog. Tsukishima felt a deep ache in his chest, and wanted to pluck his heart out and squash it. Possessing one was lost on him. First, he’d hurt his brother with his carelessness and now he was inflicting pain on a person who showed him nothing but…understanding.

Sure, Kuroo hid behind layers and layers of snide comments, but his encouraging trust that Tsukishima could become a better guitarist had been crystal clear. He always looked at Tsukishima with a knowing glance, like he’d been given a glimpse into Tsukishima’s future and seen what would become of him.

Ever since that day in the beach, when he’d bent over Tsukishima’s broken string, snipped it, grumbling softly about how Tsukishima should take care of expensive shit like a Gibson, and Tsukishima had received kindness and patience from Kuroo.

The tears he hadn’t allowed to fall last night were now gathering strength and blurring his sight, and no matter how much he tried to discreetly wipe his eyes, every time he’d look up and realize that he wasn’t walking next to Kuroo, his throat would close up and the tears would collect again.

Fifteen minutes into their walk, he noticed Akaashi walking into a convenience store and paused outside. He’d been caught up in his whirlwind of self-loathing and hadn’t even bothered to talk to Akaashi. The drummer came out with the same brand of ice-cream from the last time Tsukishima had been treated. He accepted it with a quiet, “Thank you.”

“Do you mind telling me what happened now?” Akaashi asked, not wasting time. Tsukishima’s heart dropped into his stomach. He looked down at the wrapper—a bright pink, exclaiming yummy, genuine strawberry flavor. He swallowed back the thick ball of hate in his throat.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he lied.

Akaashi clicked his tongue. The sound was so unlike him that Tsukishima flinched.

“I’m not so caught up with myself to be totally oblivious. Not like Bokuto-san anyway.”

“That’s really callous considering—” he paused. Was he about to talk about Akaashi’s feelings with so very little consideration?

“Considering that I’m in love with him?” Akaashi casually continued Tsukishima’s thought for him.

He stared at the drummer, mouth falling open, then closed it with a snap that made his molars hurt for a second. “I didn’t…I mean…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even—”

“It’s okay, Tsukishima. I…” Akaashi sighed. A deep, long exhale that appeared to lighten up some of the tension in his shoulders. “I am aware that I’m the most obvious man on this earth. It’s ironic, really.”

He tilted his head to the side, ice-cream forgotten, but he didn’t dare ask what _that_ meant. The street light above them flickered once, then continued to shine brightly. Akaashi opened his ice-cream cup, plucked the little wooden spoon from the bottom of the cover, and took a big chunk out of his banana-flavored dessert.

His mouth pinched as he ate and Tsukishima remembered to have his own treat before it melted in the summer heat. He also took a big bite and hissed at the immediate ache in his temple. He wondered what Kuroo was doing then, whether he got home safely. He didn’t even know where Kuroo lived. Their entire friendship revolved around music. A niggling thought invaded his thoughts. Was he truly infatuated with Kuroo or with the opportunity he presented—a chance to learn music, to see what Akiteru loved so much, to have a slice of that happiness? To learn, again, how to welcome peace into his heart.

He wasn’t aware that he was crying, really. His face was hot, for sure, but it wasn’t until Akaashi passed him soft tissues that Tsukishima sniffed and realized it. He blew his nose noisily, then wiped his cheeks. Too ashamed to look at Akaashi, he mumbled a “Thank you” to the ground. His ice-cream was finished in three bites, then its wrapper dumped into a nearby trash bin.

“There isn’t a lot of advice I can offer you, Tsukishima, but I think this should suffice: honesty always wins. Whatever is clogging your mind—which I’m sure is begging to be cleared—isn’t good for you. You should let your nasty personality win and let it out.”

He couldn’t help the snort. “Akaashi-san, you’re doing a bad job of comforting me right now.”

Akaashi smiled when he looked up at him. “I know. But I doubt you need comforting, Tsukishima. You just need a little ribbing.”

“Now you’re just being honest.”

Akaashi quirked an eyebrow. “I thought that was the whole purpose of our talk.”

He gave a distracted hum, looking up at the sky. There were too many lights to allow for the stars to peek through. Besides, it was a cloudy sky for once. He wished he could see the moon clearly. He wished he could watch the stars with Akiteru. He wished and wished and wished but none of those damned wishes would ever come true. He squeezed his eyes shut, brushed the fresh tears from his cheeks, and accepted another batch of tissues from Akaashi.

“I had an older brother,” he began. And that was how he opened the door on his misery; sharing it with Akaashi for as long as they sat there, on a wooden bench by a brightly-lit convenience store. His voice broke and his eyes burned, but he continued talking until he was forcing his words out with fiery regret coating his tongue, bitter and angry at a world that took his brother long before Tsukishima had had enough. Matter of fact, he would never have enough of Akiteru. He couldn’t fathom why his brother, so full of life, light, and love, would be stolen from them in that way. Without a warning.

He let Akaashi comfort him, pressing his knee to his, and sniffed gratefully when he wasn’t offered empty platitudes. He sent a thank you to the universe that Akaashi didn’t say a word about _destiny_ or how it was Akiteru’s time to go.

Had Tsukishima known he’d have so little time; he might have appreciated his brother a little more loudly. He would have loved him as clearly as _he_ had received Akiteru’s love.

His chest felt too tight at the thought of never having his brother’s eyes on him, never being in Akiteru’s warmth and love, never hugging him one last time. He’d always made such a fuss when Akiteru hugged him. A hiccup escaped him as he confessed that particular thought to Akaashi. “If I could have another shot, I’d let him hug me as much as he liked and never pretend to be bothered by Akiteru’s love.”

Akaashi let a soft laugh. “I bet he thinks you’re his cute little brother with or without the nasty attitude.”

He sniffed, unbothered by the _nasty_ comment. He prided himself on being uniquely acerbic. “I doubt someone as tall and big as me can be cute or little.”

Akaashi shrugged, pressed his knee against Tsukishima’s one last time, and said, “Oh, believe me. Cute isn’t just about being short and small.”

He wanted to laugh, or say something snide, but then remembered the last person to call him cute. Kuroo’s burning cheeks. The way he’d looked at Tsukishima. The tight way he’d held his guitar case as he walked away with Bokuto. Oh. He messed up. Big time. He dreaded the kind of apology he needed to prepare to smooth over the wrinkle he’d created between them.

He knew so little of asking for forgiveness; after all, had he known the basics, he wouldn’t be walking around with a weight far heavier than a Gibson guitar strapped to his back.

Gym 3 was doing great. Tsukishima could discern that much through their last rehearsal, then later that day, through the practice they had at the venue. He’d expected his feet to turn into steel and stick to the entrance, but with Akaashi’s soft “Let’s go,” and the quiet way Kuroo watched him, Tsukishima managed to walked into Black Crows and even continue breathing as normal.

The venue was small. No more than a hundred people could be in the room, and even that might prove a little too much. The venue organizer, who was an energetic man named Tendo with wide eyes and bright red hair cut close to his head, was clear in his instructions.

The lineup consisted of five bands. The live started at seven and ended at midnight, each band could use its slot for whatever it wanted. Besides Gym 3, the other four ranged from popular covers to heavy metal. They were a diverse group for sure.

Tsukishima looked down at his plain white T-shirt and then back at the leopard print a short drummer wore and felt underdressed.

There was Yaku and Kai’s band, Wild Cats, accompanied by a third guy, who was tall, gray-haired, and their bassist. Belatedly, Tsukishima recognized him as Lev, the volleyball player Kuroo was whipping into shape. Lev went around introducing himself as the band’s front-man, only for Yaku to drag him back to their corner with a stern warning.

There was an all-girl band who looked intimidating and yet handed out free copies of their CD with brilliant smiles. Tsukishima carefully stored his copy in his guitar case.

Tendo didn’t bother hide his excitement and seemed almost ready to break into song and dance while he watched the bands practice. He was especially encouraging of the nervous looking guy with the bowl hair. Unfortunate hairstyle aside, Goshiki was energetic and played a sickening beat on the bass. His band consisted of five in total but he was clearly the most passionate. Theirs was the second to last. Gym 3 was last.

Tsukishima held his guitar tightly in his hands and tried to calm his nerves. He’d never even tuned his guitar in front of strangers, so to have to practice a whole song…it made his limbs go numb and his mind to turn to static.

Until a hand touched his elbow, gently, and eased him out of his thoughts. It was Kuroo. He looked serious, mouth stern, and yet it didn’t curb Tsukishima’s urge to kiss him at all.

“I thought I’d give you this… you know, since you clearly won our challenge.” In Kuroo’s hand was the same bright cyan distortion pedal. Tsukishima had somehow shelved the idea aside, what with the recent ordeal of feelings and fresh grief descending on him in the past week.

He accepted it now, his heart feeling three times its usual size. He didn’t know what to say. The pedal was as heavy as it’d been in the shop. That day felt like ages ago. Kuroo didn’t linger for Tsukishima to gather his thoughts and gratitude, and was helping one of the techs at the venue with his amp. Tsukishima followed in their movements and got his guitar plugged properly. He was wiping sweat from the back of his neck when a throat cleared next to him.

Bokuto wasn’t one for speeches but since Kuroo’s voice was missing the past two days, he was their impromptu hype-man. The reason for Kuroo’s silence wasn’t lost on Tsukishima but he figured that minutes before rehearsing in front of other musician was _not_ an ideal time to apologize for being an emotionally-stunted piece of shit.

“All right. Our first live with Tsukki is upon us and while I’m not worried at all about our performance—you have me, after all—I will say this to whomever might be: don’t. We’ll rock their world even if Tsukki forgot everything he’s learned.”

“That’s hardly encouraging,” Akaashi muttered. But he was smiling.

“Really, Bokuto. You suck. Just… don’t grow disenchanted by the world halfway through the song, okay?” Kuroo said, his tone as familiarly biting as a well-loved pen in Tsukishima’s hand. He wanted to reach out and grab Kuroo’s arm, pull him close, and kiss the daylight out of him.

But he held his guitar closer and nodded when Akaashi asked if he was all right. As weird as Bokuto’s speech had been, it was also true. They’d put in the hours. They had cleanly straightened out every kink in their individual methods. They were a well-oiled machine. Tsukishima put all of his faith in these three guys and their ability to rock. They had already changed his life in a significant manner; he had no doubt they were only on the precipice of bigger greatness.

With three taps of Akaashi’s drumsticks, the band began playing the first song on their list. _Moonlight_ was special in how much it grew on Tsukishima, but his favorite part, second to Akaashi’s soulful voice, clear and steady even as his body moved and his limbs seemed to move on their own accordance, was the half-way guitar solo Kuroo played.

This time, Tsukishima didn’t stop himself from staring. His position was to the side of the stage, and he had a perfect vantage point to look as much as he liked at the man who dazzled him on a daily basis.

Kuroo’s dark jeans, so tight they looked painted on, emphasized the strength in his legs, and his dark tank top showed so much of his strong shoulders that Tsukishima knew his face burned for a reason besides the physical and mental effort practicing in front of a crowd required. He was watching Kuroo so intently that when the man looked back at him, Tsukishima couldn’t look away. He didn’t even want to. Instead, he wanted Kuroo to see him staring; see the yearning pulling him apart. For a chance, Tsukishima stopped being so scared of the strength of his feelings and dared Kuroo to open his eyes and see.


	8. Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tsukishima begins to heal.

“What are you wearing, Tsukki? I thought we agreed on chic.”

Talking to Kuroo again was proving such a hardship. If Tsukishima hated one thing it was criticism, especially the blatant provocative type in which Kuroo was an expert.

“I will do no such thing, and—” he pointed at Bokuto, “he’s shirtless.”

Kuroo waved his words away, which made a vein pop in Tsukishima’s forehead. Oh, he was gunning for a nasty reply any second now—tender feelings to be damned. “That’s Bo’s brand.”

“Bo? What’s that? Sounds cool! Akaashi, call me Bo.”

“I will stick with Bokuto-san if I may,” Akaashi replied seamlessly.

“How come he gets to do that and I have to change?” Why did he even bother arguing with Kuroo? The guy had his own logic for everything.

“Because,” Kuroo began as he handed Tsukishima a black T-shirt that looked three sizes too small—he was a growing boy, but he wasn’t as small as he’d once been during his first year of high school, “you’re a Rockstar now and rockstars don’t perform in jeans.”

The vein was throbbing properly now. “What does that mean? Are you asking me to change my pants too?”

“Not asking. Telling.” Kuroo gave him a toothy grin, then handed over what looked precisely like Tsukishima’s worst nightmare: leather pants.

The shock was so great that he did end up walking back into Kuroo’s bedroom—they met in his apartment because it was the closest to the venue—and changing into the horrible outfit.

Wasn’t it enough that he’d taken off his glasses? All in the name of trying. The leather pants fit eerily right. Like someone had figured out his size. They were broken in, somehow, the faux leather feeling stretchy around his thighs. He detested looking in the mirror and seeing that the pair made his legs look impossibly long. Sighing, he put on the T-shirt, only to find it had cut off sleeves and was adorned with an embroidered half-moon in the back. The symbol was reminiscent of what Tsukishima’s mother liked to buy him as a kid.

He avoided looking at his face, because even if his hair was just the right shade, his face was still just wrong. This wasn’t right.

“Tsukki, come on, we don’t have all day. We gotta be at the venue in thirty minutes and we still gotta deal with your hair!”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” he regretted asking only a fraction of a second after he’d said it. He came out of the bedroom to all three of them sitting on the couch. Akaashi wore a nondescript dark gray Henley and had switched to contacts as well. He immediately gave Tsukishima a thumbs up of approval.

Bokuto found it fit to jump up and shout, “Holy shit! Tsukki, you look so hot!” Then proceeded to give him a hug, which Tsukishima didn’t enjoy mainly because being hugged by an overenthusiastic oaf didn’t make him any less gay and Bokuto any less shirtless. “Look, we match now! Leather pants for life!” Ugh.

Kuroo was disturbingly quiet. Tsukishima found himself fidgeting with his hands, fumbling with his t-shirt’s hem. Did it look weird after all?

He was about to ask when Kuroo walked up to him, all swagger (double ugh) and a leer (triple ugh and a skipped heartbeat—he needed to see a doctor about his heart’s infatuation with this weirdo).

“I am a genius!” Kuroo finally declared, then sat him down on the couch next to Akaashi, and added, “close your eyes.”

The next fifteen minutes were the worst of Tsukishima’s life, and he’d sat through many volleyball games back in middle school for Yamaguchi, who promised to show up at the live for moral support. Tsukishima focused on that rather than the fact that Kuroo was using his eyelid as a canvas.

The scratching of a pencil on his eyelid was horrifying but he took deep breaths through his nose and tried exhaling discreetly. Knowing that Kuroo was less than an inch away from his face was bad news for his heart and newly found, named feelings. Ugh. He was going to roll his eyes soon if he didn’t stop thinking of wanting to kiss Kuroo. He thought he’d gotten over the awkward stage of crushing on men who were way cooler and way out of his league. Guess there were things in life that proved Tsukishima wrong after all.

“Whoa, Tsukki!” Bokuto exclaimed, a tad too close for Tsukishima’s liking. He tried to lean away from the sound but Kuroo had a grip on his neck.

“Stay there, Kei.” The name rolled off Kuroo’s tongue so freely that Tsukishima froze entirely. He didn’t even make a single sound when Kuroo threaded his fingers through his hair, finger-combing and tousling his hair with what felt like gel.

When he did get permission to open his eyes, he found Kuroo staring at him with parted lips and dazed eyes. Kuroo had called him Kei. In front of the band, but Bokuto didn’t seem to notice, and Akaashi, bless his soul, deliberately played with his phone.

“Proper Rockstar.” Kuroo looked too red in the face to sell Tsukishima on his confidence, but, indeed, when he did peek into the handheld mirror Kuroo pushed his way, Tsukishima could see it.

He didn’t look like Akiteru, for one. Akiteru never wore eyeliner or had this much gel in his hair. Tsukishima was surprised to see that he didn’t look like a seventeen-year-old trying to look older, he looked… well, he looked hot. Like he could get what he wanted. Like he could kiss Kuroo right there, and no one would blink an eye.

Better nip that urge in the bud.

Kuroo didn’t help. He was looking at Tsukishima without bothering to disguise his feelings. It was entirely unfair. Tsukishima just managed to verbalize what he felt (to himself, quietly, at night, Kuroo’s name hot on his breath and feeling entirely forbidden and sweet), and now he had to deal with Kuroo _looking_ at him.

“I…” Kuroo began, but never got to finish since Bokuto reached his limit for waiting and was antsy, tugging at Kuroo’s pants—which were absolutely shredded and revealed his knees (why did knees of all body parts make Tsukishima feel so desperate?)—and asking,

“Can we go now? I gotta make a proper entrance.”

Kuroo’s grin looked pasted on. “Let’s go.”

“Tsukki! You look so good, Tsukki!”

“Quiet down, Yamaguchi.”

“Sorry, Tsukki!”

The exchange was so familiar that it couldn’t shake Tsukishima out of his concentrated bubble. The band had done one last sound check. For a nondescript, small concert hall, if it could be called such, they took their events very seriously. In the hubbub of everything, nerves hadn’t managed to get through to Tsukishima. But standing in the little, slightly packed waiting room had made his neck sweat, so he got out to get some fresh air, and ran into an enthusiastic, loud Yamaguchi.

“Oh, oh, you won’t believe who’s inside.”

For a second, he thought Yamaguchi was talking about Akiteru, then his heart hiccupped, and life continued to go on. Yeah. That wasn’t about to happen. This wasn’t a fantastical story. This was his life, and it was unbearably boring and normal. And devoid of loving, older brothers.

“It’s Saeko-nee!” She’d gotten even Yamaguchi to call her older sister, ruffling his hair and telling him she’ll buy him a popsicle if he did.

Tsukishima, having been the one to invite her, had no right to stop breathing. He definitely should react sometime soon. “Ah. Yes. I texted her,” he finally said.

Yamaguchi looked so concerned, like he might actually begin crying, but he took one look at Tsukishima’s fisted hands and nodded. “She looks good, too. Tanaka-senpai, you know from my volleyball team, came along. He brought his boyfriend Nishinoya-san.”

Ah. The duo was notorious for being so loudly and obnoxiously in love. Tsukishima had envied their temerity, and now, standing in the summer heat, breathing in much-polluted, second-hand cigarette smoke, he wished he had a fraction of it.

Fortunately for him, Akaashi pulled him back inside, saying something about needing to get ready, they were next. The words entered one ear and exited through the other. In those few minutes before he had to perform, Tsukishima got cold feet.

What was he doing here? Why was he here? Had he so easily forgotten how impossibly dull and untalented he was? This wasn’t right. None of it. It should be Akiteru instead of him. Why was his ungrateful, wretched self even putting him through this? He couldn’t even pick up his guitar—not HIS—without wanting to drop it. But he knew its value, he knew Akiteru could possibly haunt him for hurting the Gibson. How many times had Akiteru held it and affectionately called it his baby?

A warm, wide hand closed around his upper arm, pulling him gently aside. He knew it. He’d memorized its callouses. He was hopelessly and impossibly in love with it. Looking up and seeing Kuroo’s eyes, unfathomable and so terrifyingly honest, shook him up. Tsukishima’s body began shivering five minutes before their performance, and that really wasn’t okay.

“You just need to breathe, Kei.” No fucking way. He couldn’t breathe with Kuroo saying his name like that. All quiet and intimate, like they were destined lovers who had known one another since infancy. No way. Except he followed Kuroo’s instruction. He inhaled, held the air in his breath, and then exhaled.

He followed Kuroo’s own breathing, part of him fascinated with how Kuroo’s tight, bright red tank looked painted-on. He reached out and fisted the fabric in his hand. Huh. Not painted-on. He realized he was holding onto it even after his breathing went back to normal—when had it gone wrong? Oh, yeah, right around the time he began questioning his entire purpose in life, and why he thought pursuing something in such a half-assed manner would be a good idea.

“You calmed down,” Kuroo said, his voice still that low tone, slithering under Tsukishima’s skin, turning his heartbeat fickle.

He swallowed thickly, and Kuroo seemed to relax even further, his slouch purposely covering Tsukishima’s body despite being a couple of centimeters shorter than him.

“I might have done a too great of a job with you, Kei.”

He looked up finally—he was watching how his hands fit so perfectly around Kuroo’s tank top, how he should do this more often, how he didn’t ever want to let go—and saw Kuroo smiling.

It wasn’t his usual leer, or even the shit-eating grin he gave Bokuto. Tsukishima didn’t recognize this particular look. Soft around the curl of his lip and lopsided, like Kuroo was looking at a kitten or something equally adorable—something decisively not Tsukishima-like.

“Your hair. Your eyeliner. It makes you look…well, don’t mind me.”

But Tsukishima did mind. He mindedly an impossible amount. He didn’t let Kuroo get away with it. He held onto his tank and daringly tugged Kuroo closer— _don’t even try to get away_ , his eyes said, and Kuroo’s smile widened.

“Tell me.”

That same big palm curled over Tsukishima’s back, patted his shoulder blades, and Kuroo said, “You look mind-numbingly cute.”

To his horror, Tsukishima’s face burned.

He schooled his expression and pretended otherwise. But that was futile. Kuroo saw it. That’s the problem. He’d been seeing Tsukishima for weeks now. If Kuroo hadn’t believed his shaken confession at the train station, then he definitely saw Tsukishima’s chest, cut open and bleeding his god damned feelings all over him. All for him.

He was experiencing both embarrassment and an illicit daring.

“Well, you made me cute so you better act on it, Kuroo.”

He dropped the honorific deliberately, wanting to see how Kuroo would react to it. The shark-like grin practically slammed into Tsukishima and made him regret ever existing in a Kuroo-less world.

“Not until you politely ask, Kei.”

Ignoring his warm cheeks, Tsukishima muttered, “I’m asking now.”

“Is that so? All I heard was you trying to get a rise out of me.”

They were inching closer now, Tsukishima’s nerves replaced by a disgusting yearning for Kuroo to just do it. Just… kiss him. “I thought you liked that. You seem so glad when I do it.”

Kuroo’s grin widened. “I do. I like it a lot. I like you—” The rest of that was lost to Tsukishima because, a) his brain exploded and b) Bokuto grabbed them both in a headlock. When Tsukishima looked around them, he found an apologetic-looking Akaashi. He sure would like to continue that conversation with Kuroo but there was music to be played. Gladly, Tsukishima’s mind got so caught up on those last three words Kuroo said that he managed to forget all about his nerves. And what a relief that was.

They were setting up their instruments when the presence of someone’s eyes on him gave him pause. He looked up and saw Kuroo looking at him. He who was positioned opposite Tsukishima, with Bokuto slightly center stage without blocking the audience’s view of Akaashi. It was too dim to see his eyes, but Tsukishima felt their warmth.

They huddled close, and Kuroo, back in his much more suited role of motivator, gave them a look. “This isn’t Budokan, all right? It’s just another Saturday night, and we’re just another band. So, let’s give it our all like the bunch of overbearing musicians we are.”

Bokuto pouted. “No way, Kuroo. Where’s your usual zest?”

“Don’t mind him, Kuroo-san. That was perfect.” Akaashi got a full pout from Bokuto.

“What do you mean by zest?”

Bokuto scratched his hair, his gelled spikes unmoved. “This guy used to say an entire speech about the body and blood in high school. I can’t remember the specifics, but it was so fucking cool.”

Tsukishima looked up to find Kuroo properly blushing. “That was for volleyball, Bo.”

“So? I’m going to give it a hundred and ten!”

Akaashi sighed. “There’s no need to go overboard, Bokuto-san. Let’s just perform well, okay?”

“Uh, guys, are you ready?” said Yaku at the side.

Funny enough, the entire exchange managed to center Tsukishima and give him clarity on what he needed to do.

First, he was going to do a mediocre job, which was totally okay and expected of a guy who picked up the guitar only over a month ago. Then, he was going to do a better job kissing his impossibly handsome guitarist.

Akaashi should be given a grand prize for being so fucking cool and for sounding so good that even ten minutes after they’d finished their two songs and their medley of covers courtesy of Kuroo’s love for pop groups, Tsukishima had goose bumps.

He touched a finger to the back of his arm and felt the ridges lining his skin. Weird. Way too weird. They were back in that same waiting room, but were given permission to go into the main hall to enjoy the rest of the show.

Before he could do that, Tsukishima needed to find a way to calm his heartbeat despite how impossible the task seemed. He felt that same threatening presence from earlier. Kuroo. Their bodies gravitated out of the room, away from voyeurs and eavesdropper. They stood in a long staircase, the walls covered in posters and a mishmash of ads for wanted guitarists/bassists/drummers/keyboardists that filled Tsukishima’s periphery vision with bright colors and eclectic fonts.

He didn’t want to look at the posters though. He leaned back against the wall opposite the railing, Kuroo filling his vision. His hair was as unruly as ever, but it fit so well with his get up of ripped jeans and thread-bare tight tank top. Kuroo’s eyes kept darting from one place to the other. Every glance felt like a touch to Tsukishima. First his cheeks, then his lips, his neck, his collar bones.

Tsukishima fidgeted with his hands, ignorant of what to do precisely. So much for possessing any gumption. Now, all he could think of was ways to proceed with caution, to be clear and yet not overwhelming, to seem serious and not like a teenager (oh god, he was a minor, technically) professing his feelings to a college student.

“Look at me, Tsukki.”

He could barely peel his eyes away from Kuroo’s face a second ago, now, he wanted to look anywhere else.

“Sorry, I seem to have lost my courage.”

“Bullshit. If I know you at all, I know you can do whatever you want.”

Tsukishima let out a bitter snort then looked up. “And how well do you know me, Kuroo-san?”

The return of the honorific shouldn’t move Kuroo much, but he took a step back, raking a hand through his hair, messing it up—huh, so that wasn’t gel that kept it vertical.

“I…I’m sorry. I thought you…”

 _You thought wrong_ , Tsukishima wanted to say with a sudden viciousness, to crush this weakness that made him want to spew shit like _kiss me_ and _be my boyfriend_. What a joke. Did he seriously think he _deserved_ to be happy? He looked away, wishing he had his glasses to hide behind.

“Hey, Tsukki. What’s wrong?”

He breathed and realized he’d kind of just closed up. His arms were wrapped around his torso, and he was more cowering into the corner than casually leaning into the wall. Fuck. No. This wasn’t the time.

He took a deep breath, tried to imitate what Kuroo had taught him before the show, but his mind was louder in the quiet staircase. Here, where he could only hear his own erratic breathing and Kuroo’s concern, Tsukishima found he didn’t have the strength to fight anymore.

He lowered himself and sat down on a step, curling around his body, his hold tight over his knees and his head buried in his arms. He didn’t want to be looked at anymore. He didn’t want to exist. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what he deserved. Nothing; that’s what he deserved.

He shouldn’t even be happy. Not when Akiteru was robbed of his life.

Because of him. Because right that weekend, Tsukishima had wanted to focus on studying. It was three weeks before his exams, he had ample time, but he wanted to fucking study. He ignored Akiteru’s request to come along, to see him live during his first outdoor venue. It would have been the band’s first performance since they signed a contract with a label.

But Tsukishima was a bitter, jealous little brother who had snapped that it was just another performance. There was no just.

“I did it.” He didn’t even know why he was speaking. He hadn’t told Akaashi this part. How he’d been blinded by his own focus. “I told my brother that his life’s passion was just another performance. I let him die believing that. That… that… I didn’t care. That I didn’t love his music enough to take a single break from my own damned life to be there for him.”

Kuroo was quiet. Tsukishima knew he was there by the way his presence lingered, unwavering. He listened to his own breathing, found it somewhat stable except for the sniffling. Great. He was crying. Of course. The leather pants were too tight to fit in tissues, of course, so he had to rub his face against the T-shirt.

“Sorry, I’m messing up your clothes.”

“Don’t mind that.”

His eyes burned, the contacts not meshing well with his meltdown. He wanted to take them out but he preferred not to walk around a blurry world.

“You know, the reason I carry around the Gibson is because he left it behind. It was the most valuable thing he had, and he left it behind because I implied that it wasn’t necessary to be so excited. That it was wrong to be passionate about music. I did that.”

His words rang in his head, low and bitter, and he wanted to hide from the green-eyed-monster that had once dwelled in his chest. He would give so much to see Akiteru again. To apologize. To tell him how much he admired him.

“Wow, sounds like you said something inconsiderate in the heat of the moment.”

His head snapped up. Kuroo was sitting next to him, leaning back on his elbows. Didn’t he worry about the dirty stairs? Then again, Tsukishima wasn’t in the position to criticize.

“It wasn’t inconsiderate. I purposefully hurt my brother’s pride.”

“Yeah, I know. But, Tsukki, I don’t believe for one second that you intended to hurt your brother.”

Air flew out of his lungs. He let out a tiny hiccup.

“And I bet that Akiteru-kun, who probably knew you more than anyone else …thought so, too.” Kuroo leveled those eyes on him, daring him to disagree. How come Tsukishima never managed to hide much around Kuroo?

“How can you know?”

“Because I got to know you. I got to see how sincere you can be underneath all of that teen angst—and yes, you still have some left in you, Mr. I’m Eighteen in September.”

He opened his mouth to argue that he’d hardly mentioned it once but Kuroo was smiling, lifting a hand to touch Tsukishima’s hair. His palm was so soft, despite the callouses—or maybe because of them, Tsukishima wanted to tilt his face into it.

He wanted to be held.

“I don’t think I deserve the type of kindness you hand me,” he confessed, eyes fluttering close. He didn’t dare see Kuroo’s reaction. “I don’t think I deserve _you._ At all.”

“Well, that’s a shame, because you deserve even more, Kei.”

His eyes snapped open, and again, his face burned.

They sat in the staircase for a minute or an hour, the air filled with the sound of the bands upstairs playing their heart out, performing for the small audience as if every chord mattered. That song, that incessant melody, trickled back into Tsukishima’s mind. It was only in certain moments that he could hear it, but he’d never managed to remember where he’d first heard it. Now, with Kuroo’s hand still in his hair, cupping his head, eyes deep and unflinching, Tsukishima remembered. It was the song Akiteru had been writing the week of.

A hot tear slid down his nose, and he moved to wipe it. Not ashamed, but wanting this moment of clarity to be just that. Not a moment of grief. He missed Akiteru more than the moon could miss the sun, but there was very little he could do. The least he could do now was go on.

“I think… I’m ready to try again,” he said. Whether it’d be trying to let himself live, or to deserve Kuroo’s attentions and obvious care, he made a decision right there and then.

“Tsukki, you were so cool,” Yamaguchi was saying, tears and snot messing up his face.

“Didn’t think you’d have it in ya, kid.”

Saeko didn’t look any different from the last time he’d seen her. The same blond bob and heavy eyeliner. Her under-eye bags were less pronounced, and her lipstick was the same bright red she liked. She was dressed in a thin, dark blue skirt and a tucked-in polka-dotted shirt. Her ever-present grin was there, too, and the relief Tsukishima felt when he saw it nearly collapsed him.

Instead, he let her hug him, squeeze every bit of regret and self-loathing out if she wanted. She always gave great hugs, not that he cared to tell her. Now, he wrapped his arms around her frame, shocked to find that the same woman, who seemed so full of life, was so small. She was shorter and narrower, but when she looked at him, eyes bright with unshed tears, she felt as big as a thirty-story building.

“Thank you for coming, nee-san.”

“Nee-san? Tsukki has an older sister?” Bokuto gladly removed any awkwardness Tsukishima would have felt regarding Saeko’s teary-eyed shock. It melted away as he introduced her to his band-mates (huh, it didn’t feel so wrong to call them such).

“Thank you for taking care of my Kei-chan.”

Kuroo’s eyes brightened at the nickname. Now, Tsukishima remembered why he should keep Saeko far away from the object of his helpless affection. “Nee-san.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s hard to stop callin’ you that. I mean, I’ve known you since you were a skinny beanpole.”

Ah. Again. Revealing bits and pieces of his past, which made Kuroo lean forward, all interest and with zero shame. “Say, nee-san, why don’t you join us for some drinks?”

Tsukishima stiffened, then relaxed. He gave Saeko a look, and she, in turn, gave Kuroo a wide grin. “Why, I’d love to.”

“Well, since someone reminded me, I’m a minor, so I’ll leave you adults to your drinking.”

Kuroo opened his mouth but Saeko was on him in a minute, pulling him towards a bar she had probably frequented with Akiteru. Tsukishima watched them go, followed by Bokuto, who kept peppering in questions about what Saeko thought of their music, and Akaashi, who looked faintly flushed.

Tsukishima’s past and present were intertwining, forming a surreal image. He’d let everything out tonight. His frustration, his sadness, his yearning. It was out there, in the air, but instead of feeling stifled and overwhelmed, he felt light.

Hm.

“Say, Tsukki, wanna go for ice-cream?” Yamaguchi asked.

“Yeah, Yamaguchi. Let’s go get ice-cream.”

“Are you sure we’re in the right seats?”

Tsukishima was sure, but this was the fourth time Yamaguchi asked, and was planting seeds of doubts in his mind. He huffed and pulled out his ticket. Yamaguchi had his own but was too antsy to take it out and check himself.

“See. It says here.”

He understood Yamaguchi’s worry. They were after all only a couple of feet away from the stage. Their seats were perfectly centered in the VIP section. Kuroo made sure of that. He also made sure to send Tsukishima a huge plush toy that looked eerily like him but there was no way Tsukishima would bring it along. It’d reveal that he was Kuroo Tetsuro’s secret boyfriend.

The rumor started three months ago thanks to Kuroo posting a blurry picture on Twitter with Tsukishima’s shirtless back in bed. Tsukishima had raged and called Kuroo the worst of names, then quietly saved the picture to his gallery.

Kuroo had deleted it, after receiving extra lashing from Saeko, who was now his manager and publicist. “It would put Tsukki in an awkward position! You’re debuting so soon, and he’s got three whole years of college before he’s ready for marriage!”

Tsukishima had tried to calm her down but this wasn’t brand new information to anyone. His mother hadn’t batted an eye when he’d told her Kuroo had proposed. Though, she did get emotional at the way Kuroo offered his gratitude.

“Saeko-nee sure did an amazing job with the advertisement, eh? The place is almost packed.”

Yes. A year later, and Tsukishima was still wondering just how that odd friendship had blossomed an entire future for Kuroo, especially after Gym 3’s disbandment.

Bokuto had to quit the band at the end of last year’s summer because he got recruited into a pro volleyball team. That last practice with him had been awkward and tense. Kuroo, on one end, was devastated Bokuto was leaving, while Akaashi was eerily quiet.

It came as a shock to no one when, at the end of the session, and after three shots of tequila, Bokuto kissed Akaashi, asking him not to miss him too much. Akaashi had blushed and said nothing.

It was only later that Tsukishima found out that Akaashi and Bokuto got together during Tsukishima’s first live performance. “I saw them kissing in the bathroom,” Kuroo had told him, leering.

Then, once the fall semester began, Akaashi got busier than ever as he was offered a permanent junior position at the publishing house at which he’d interned. That, and studies, made music a fleeting future for him.

Tsukishima still remembered the way Kuroo moped for four whole days after Akaashi’s own farewell party. Kuroo knew Tsukishima’s own departure was a matter of time—freshman year at university was packed as ever. He was sleeping less and less every night just so he can see Kuroo.

Then, in December, after one last Christmas live, Kuroo got an offer to join another band fronted by none other than rising Rockstar Semi Eita.

“Isn’t this great?” Kuroo had whispered, voice low as they snuggled in Tsukishima’s bed. It was too small but Kuroo squeezed him close, kissing his forehead.

“It’s what you deserve, Tetsuro-san.”

Kuroo grinned, tickling Tsukishima’s side, “I thought I told you to stop with the politeness.”

But he couldn’t just call him Tetsuro. It made fireworks explode all over his insides. So, he simply dipped his head and kissed Kuroo on his lips, properly distracting him.

Tsukishima still blushed when he remembered those nights they spent together during New Year’s. Sending his mother on that trip to an onsen had been an inspired gift from Akaashi. He’d told Tsukishima that it was his apology for having him put up with a pouting Kuroo.

He hadn’t minded. Not one bit.

The arena got quieter, then the sound of over ten thousand fans screaming blew right through the silence. A wicked guitar riff plunged the entire place into a worse case of chaos, then Kuroo showed up on the stage, alongside his new band-members. His hair was more of a controlled mess of products and constant fiddling, of which Tsukishima constantly made fun, but Kuroo’s grin, bright and wide, was the same.

If Tsukishima had to choose a favorite thing about Kuroo, he wouldn’t hesitate. This. In front of him. Wild and chaotic. This version of Kuroo suited Tsukishima best. He didn’t mind the gentle man who eased over the painful ridges of Tsukishima’s torn heart. He fell ridiculously in love with the sly, snarky man who liked ribbing him and frustrating all of his attempts at studying. But this delirious Kuroo, who looked like a phoenix reborn, was the love of Tsukishima’s life.

It was this Kuroo that slowly eased him out of his self-made cocoon. That discovered all the ways Tsukishima wanted to live and gave him a shove.

Kuroo had been the distortion pedal to his sound. He’d taken all of Tsukishima’s broken pieces and nudged them together.

They hadn’t been able to see one another for a week, Kuroo was too busy with endless rehearsals for the band’s debut, but they stole moments here and there. “Is music fun for you now, Kei?” Kuroo had asked over the phone last night.

Tsukishima had been in bed, with that atrocious plus toy, and since Kuroo couldn’t see him, he hugged the toy’s scarily accurate grin closer to his chest. “Once in a blue moon, it’s fun.”

Now, watching his fiancé play the music that freed Tsukishima’s soul merely emphasized it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the ending isn't too abrupt. I thought I gave Tsukki a good start on healing. He's not fully recovered but now he's got on the path.
> 
> Thank you if you've been reading this as I updated. This is my first fanfic since 2014, when I'd quit due to insecurity. I never forgot my love for fanfic, though, and I'm glad I get to come back to the very same manga/anime I love so much and to a character like Tsukki (sorry for the pain, tears, and confusion, babe!)


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